


Without you I am nothing

by yulin



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Foot Jobs, M/M, Maritombola Challenge, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Mention of Eating Disorders, PWP, Voyeurism, not really there tho, s/d dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:16:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13255830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulin/pseuds/yulin
Summary: After many losses, Leo discovers something about himself. And Cristiano, too. Together they’re beginning a new relationship that’s different from anything they ever dreamed of.This story fills the prompt "to come" of the maritombola challenge.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Not sure where I am going with this story, not sure if I am ever finishing it. But at least there is sex. Sex is good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You came to me, Leo, now come for me."

Cristiano’s relationship with his bodyguards is actually very good. He likes to have quick chats with them when he passes the gates of his house, and occasionally he even gets out, lets them talk about their family or hobbies.

  
Ok, sometimes he has also met some of them _inside_ the house, but that’s another story. For sure, he has never had a revival of ‘The Bodyguard’, but let’s say that he has had some fun. It isn’t exactly Cristiano’s fault if bodyguards almost by definition have very nice bodies.

 

But on the other hand, it really has been just really on occasion. He needs to carefully choose his partners, even for a one-night stand, if he doesn’t want the gossip about his life to get crazy.

 

Anyway, the point is that he’s not particularly surprised, or worried, when he receives an intercom call from Jose- the guard on duty that night. He isn’t expecting any guests for the night, and he just imagines that Jose is bored and wants to kill time with a chat. Nothing more than that: the guy seems to be really in love with the girl in the pictures that he never misses a chance to show around.

 

Cristiano is surprised, instead, when he hears the reason why Jose has called. Which is not chit chatting.

 

“What?!” Cristiano asks, and he knows how stupid the question is. He guesses he has also a very stupid expression right now: the entire package with a falling jaw and wide-opening eyes. At least nobody can see him.

 

“Lionel Messi is here. Should I let him in?” the guy asks again.

 

There is another moment of confused excitation, before Cristiano rushes to answer, “Yes, yes, of course.”

 

While Cristiano is waiting for Messi to cover the brief distance from the gate to the house, he takes the occasion to glance at the mirror in the corridor. He runs a hand through his hair, taming a rebel curl that escaped from the gel. Barely fit to be seen–he judges—but he has just finished training and he was planning to spend the night with Netflix as his only companion.

 

This in itself is enough to irritate him. Call it a childhood trauma, but he doesn’t like to show himself or his house to strangers when not in perfect condition. And Messi is a stranger to him: they could have been friendly when they met each other on dozens of occasions, but that doesn’t make them friends.

 

And that is exactly the point of why he hasn’t sent him away: Messi’s reason for popping up one evening at his house, without notice, is a mystery to Cristiano, and nobody can accuse him of not being curious.

 

When finally Messi arrives at his doorstep, all the canonical greetings are stuck down in Cristiano’s throat.

 

Messi is a wreck. A shrub of messy hair over a face paler than usual. Cristiano notices blue spots under his elusive eyes, and a stubbly beard on his chin. Messi barely glances at Cris, barely mumbles hello, and then stays there, with the hands in the pockets of his sporty jacket, as he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

 

Cristiano closes the door at his back, studying Messi with big eyes. He is fighting the instinct to grab him at the shoulders, making him sit in an armchair and calling a doctor, really. The confusion in his head increases as he tries to think of why Messi is looking for him while being in such a miserable state. The only reasonable motive is that, who knows, he has just had an accident in front of Cristiano’s house?

 

“What happened?” Cristiano finally asks, skipping the pleasantries. Because it’s clear that something has happened.

 

Messi just casually shrugs, but it’s after giving him a quick glance in which Cristiano can read a sort of a mixture of surprise and scepticism.

 

Cristiano tries to recall what he knows about recent events involving Messi. Copa America. Twice. After the world cup. That wicked final happened only a week ago, and Messi should have just returned to Spain.

 

Ok, that was bad, Cristiano can understand it too well. When you are on the top, you are defined by victories. A defeat is something that doesn’t fit in the image that the world has of you, or ultimately in what you think of yourself.

 

There is space for revenge. This is even a better story to tell. The victorious hero of the world has had a moment of weakness, but in the end, _in the end_ … in the end there should be a victory, or else _he, himself,_ will start to doubt who he is.

 

Cristiano knows this.  

 

But it still doesn’t explain why Messi feels the need to come and visit him out of everyone. Cristiano knows the feeling, but he also knows that you can only work this sort of thing out with people that know you and can help you—people who can remind you who you really are. Outside the system, outside the magazines. Otherwise, you’re lost. You can’t let _them_ define you. And Lionel, being around for so many years in the public eye, should have already known that.

 

But also, there was something more in Messi’s eyes. Some kind of determination, visible even under the troubled glances.

 

“Can I have a glass of water?” Messi finally asks.

 

“Of course! I can do even better, though.  I make a cup of tea? Chocolate?”  
  
There is a faint of smile on Messi lips, and Cristiano calls it a victory. “A tea will work. Thank you very much.”

 

They are sitting on the peninsula of Cristiano’s kitchen right now. Cristiano can’t help but make a sandwich for himself: he hasn’t eaten anything since he came back home, and training reclaims his dose of calories, as always.

 

Lionel, instead, has declined any offer for food, and sits huddled on the tall chair, keeping the mug in his lap with both his hands. He hasn’t spoken yet. He’s clearly struggling to find the right words.

 

Cristiano waits, patiently. He is still very curious, but he knows better than rush him.

 

“Ok,” Messi finally says, lifting a hand from his mug and ruffling his own fringe. “You will have all the right to tell me to go to hell,” he says.

 

The combination of the tone of Messi’s voice and his Argentine accent gives his speech a soothing, almost hypnotic nature. Cristiano is surprised that he has never noticed that before. Maybe because they have never talked like this, alone in an empty, soundless room. It’s weird. How little he knows about someone who has such an importance in Cristiano’s life.

 

There have always been people around them, always a crowd, an entire stadium watching and screaming, an entire world dividing them. And they have never had the chance to even know the real tone of the voice of the other.

 

“Shoot,” he says, curious, and confident that whatever Messi says will hardly disappoint him that much.

 

Messi narrows his eyes, scrutinising Cristiano. “I heard…” he shakes his head, unable to continue for a second, before spitting out, “Is it true that you are- that you like men?”

 

Cristiano freezes. Indeed Messi had been right, because his first instinct is to tell him to go to hell. That is not exactly a question that he expects from someone who hasn’t been in his confidence. And he can’t see a reason why it should be any of Messi’s business. The challenging tone is not helping either. At all. “Why are you asking?” Cristiano asks, with very little of the kindness he had shown before.

 

Lionel stomps the chair’s footrest: a frustrated gesture. But the spread of colour on his cheeks gives him away, and opens the door to an entirely, completely unimagined new world for Cristiano.

 

“Why are you asking, _Leo_?” he repeats, but this time with a completely different tone. Gentler, more conspiratorial. Or at least, that is what Cristiano hopes, as he hopes that the use of the nickname may help.

 

“Because I need to know,” Lionel says, and there is still a challenging tone in his voice. And something more, that Cristiano can’t really figure out. Some kind of rage, some kind of desperation. Until Lionel stops and fixes his eyes into Cristiano’s. A new determination appears on his face, as he spits the words, “Would you have sex with me?”

 

Cristiano needs to concentrate on not dropping the sandwich on the floor. For a couple of seconds, he can only gasp, like a fish looking for oxygen.

 

Would he like? If Cris were honest with himself, he would admit that he is attracted in a weird way to Messi. Always has been. Messi is not his type, really –too small, too pale. But he has always been a mystery to Cristiano. His talent, the way in which he seems to not care about praises, to not even notice how he and Cristiano are making history, all this is really is an enigma to Cristiano. He can’t count how many times he has hoped he could split Messi’s head into two and see how the mechanism of his brain worked.

 

But fucking him? Cristiano hasn’t really thought about Messi. He is not fucking material. Cristiano is of the belief that there should be straight separation between work and private life. Especially because his work is so public, his privacy needs to be… well, very private. But more than that, really, he has never even thought that Lionel could have been interested in this part of the market, as to say.

 

So, yes, ok, Cristiano can’t deny that sometimes, only sometimes, he has indulged himself and let his gaze linger on Messi’s ass a little longer than necessary –but, hey, who can blame him for that?

 

But still. “What the hell?”

 

“I know! It’s just…” Messi loses all the self-control that he had faked while asking the question. “I don’t feel like--like myself. And people… they used to like someone that obviously is not me, right? And now, I don’t even know--,” he breaks off anxiously. He pulls his hair back, shaking his head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Cristiano repeats, confused. He is damned if he has understood a word from those disconnected sentences. “You don’t like yourself… so you want me to fuck you?”

 

“No! I mean,” Messi bites his lower lip, looking for words that are not coming, and Cristiano patiently waits, despite the irritation that he can feel rising in his veins.

 

“I think you can make me feel again.”  
  
“Appreciated?” Cristiano asks raising an eyebrow. Lionel is really fucked up if he’s decided to come to his house looking for appreciation. Maybe Cristiano doesn’t dislike him, but, still, he is not a member of Lionel Messi’s fanclub.

 

Again, Lionel shakes his head, with his hands torturing his hair. “Just feel, Cristiano. I think that you… You are so powerful, so strong. We are opposite, aren’t we? And if I am a _pecho frio_ , then you are the burning flame, aren’t you? Always, even when you lose and everybody attacks you, you always burn. And I want to feel this flame. I want to feel it inside me, and burn me and make me _feel_.”

 

Leo looks sullen for a moment, breathing heavily, before adding "I want to feel it like they all feel it.”

 

Cristiano looks at him in disbelief. He doesn’t understand at all. This really sounds like a crazy’s stutter, to be frankly honest. And he is just thinking about who he knows that he can call to ask about Lionel’s condition.

 

But the silence must last a bit too long, because Lionel decides to react. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, lifting from his chair. “Forgive me, Cristiano, I should have never come here.”  
  
And in that exact moment Cristiano realises that he must be crazy, as well. Because instead of being the reasonable, wise man that he should be, and has always claimed to be for his entire life, instead of letting Lionel go, or getting help as he had been planning, he hears his voice saying. “Wait!”

 

Lionel freezes in his movement, and looks at him, his eyes full of expectation.

 

Desperation.

 

And Cristiano is hit by the sudden _need_ to explore the chance that he is being offered. Of course, he wants to play and tease. To just push Lionel a little bit and see when he breaks and tells him what’s going on in his head. And maybe have a little fun with him in the meantime, but nothing more really.

 

“Then, show me,” Cris eventually says. “Show me how much you want me,” he calls out.

 

“You want me?” Leo asks, taken aback. But he’s quick to recover, to reassume his challenging attitude and glaring at Cristiano.

 

Cristiano narrows his eyes, sucking in his bottom lip, pondering. “Maybe,” he says. “First, as I already said, I need to see. How much do you really want me, Lionel?”

 

The words cause a spread of red on Lionel’s cheeks and Cristiano wonders again what exactly he wants. How had Messi ended up in this house, asking him to fuck him? It’s obvious that this is a game that Lionel is not used to playing. It’s even more obvious that he’s not quite comfortable. But Cristiano is not his angel, not his protector, and he’s not going to save him.  Lionel is a grown man, and he can face the consequences of his actions. If Lionel wants to stop, he has to make the move. And if Cristiano wants to have a little fun pushing him to his limits, hell, as said: he is not an angel, and Lionel is not an innocent sheep, even as much as he wants to play one.

 

Lionel tries to reach for Cristiano, but he moves back.

 

“Ah-ah,” Cristiano says. “I don’t need that. I said I want to see it.”

 

Lionel looks back at him, confused, his hand still hanging in the air.

 

“Go there,” Cristiano says directing Lionel to position himself in front of him. He is amazed when Lionel obeys only after a second of hesitation. Cristiano really feels like he is having some weird dream because it can’t really be true that Messi has come to his house offering himself as a sex-slave of a sort. But Cristiano is ready to prove it, because the real Messi would never obey the next order.

 

“I want to see you,” Cristiano explains to Lionel who is awkwardly standing in front of his chair slightly moving his weight from one leg to another, as he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

 

“Take your clothes off,” Cristiano clarifies.

 

Cristiano’s heart accelerates as Lionel nods. He is moving, for real. And Cristiano is half excited and half confused by what he is seeing, as he is the first to admit that he never expected Lionel to obey. Lionel is the second one, judging by how shy he looks. But still, he is complying.

 

Lionel pulls off his tennis shoes only with the movement of his feet, and then lifts one leg first, followed by the other to remove the socks. Still, he hasn’t bent down or looked down. Lionel’s gaze is always fixed on Cristiano, and it’s driving him crazy. It’s not challenging, or provocative. It’s like Lionel is desperately seeking Cristiano’s approval. The power that Lionel is offering is indescribable: Cristiano didn’t even know that he could feel so excited at the thought of possessing someone. The fact that it’s Lionel Messi, the man who Cristiano has tried to beat throughout his entire life, the one who is offering himself in that way is intoxicating.

 

There are no other words to describe how Cristiano is feeling.

 

Because now Lionel is pulling off his t-shirt and exposing a perfect, well defined body. And still, he looks so tiny, so fragile, even, with that pale skin that contrasts so much with the newly added tattoos.

 

And Cristiano has lost every little trace of being reasonable now, lost in the desire of having him. But even lust is losing, supplanted by a desire for control that Cristiano has never realized he had.

 

When Lionel goes on, lowering his trousers and briefs, Cristiano has to bite his lips to suppress a moan. He has never seen Lionel Messi as a sex object, and now he is just asking how that is possible.

 

How he has been so blind?

 

It’s hard at this point for Cristiano to ignore his body’s reactions. It’s hard not to jump out from his chair and enfold that tiny, beautiful body in his arms. He is sure that Lionel is so easy to handle, so easy to manoeuvre that Cristiano could make him sing and vibrate like the perfect musical instrument.

 

And still, that desire to challenge him beats what Cristiano has always considered as his most mind-blowing desires. And at this point Cristiano doesn’t even know why he is doing it. He just knows that he needs it. He needs to see Lionel obeying him, no matter what he asks him, how embarrassing or humiliating it is.

 

Cristiano feels guilty for that. A guilty kind of pleasure. But still, a voice in his head keeps telling him that if Lionel wants to stop this he just has to ask, and somehow this seems to be enough for Cristiano to enjoy exploring his possibilities. So, despite his own body’s reactions at the show offered to him, he forces a dismissive tone and glares at Lionel’s half erect cock. “It doesn’t seem like you want me _that much_.”

 

Lionel opens his eyes wide, mortification written all over his face, and the reddish colour even spreads on his neck and shoulders. That’s it, Cristiano thinks. That’s finally the end of the game.

 

If only.

 

If it weren’t for that little detail.

 

Because if nothing else, at least one part of Lionel seemed to appreciate the comment. And that is what pushes Cristiano to go on.

 

“C’mon, _Leo_ ,” Cristiano says, and this time there is no comfort intended in the use of the nickname. It’s a rather mocking tone. “Show me better,” he continues with a smile, “show me how you get excited.”

 

“W… what do you mean?” Lionel stutters. He now looks really miserable, because not only is he embarrassed, but he’s also confused. He is on the edge of panic, except it isn’t because he is doing something he doesn’t want to do, but rather because he does not understand what Cristiano wants from him.

 

Cristiano licks his lips in expectation. Because if Lionel is ready to comply with the next order he is going to gain the most beautiful wet dream material he has ever seen.  “How do you touch yourself, _Leo_?”

 

“Oh,” Lionel says, awkwardly reaching for his groin.

 

And that’s the exact moment when Cristiano’s brain snaps and loses his brakes, all the inhibitions that were anchoring him to reality.

 

“Good boy,” Cristiano comments after swallowing hard.

 

Lionel’s lips slightly curve up at the comment. It’s a tiny faint kind of a smile, but the last grain of rationality left in Cristiano’s brain is making him notice that it is the first smile of the night.

 

More importantly, Lionel is smiling because he has managed to please Cristiano.

 

And that’s one more good reason to urge him on, as if Cristiano really needed another. “Good,” he says. “Show me. Show me how you touch yourself thinking of me. You have done it, right? You have masturbated while thinking of me,” he insinuates.

 

“Yes,” Lionel breathes, sliding his hand over his length, slowly at first, still a bit timid.

 

“You did touch yourself, thinking about touching _me._ ”

 

“Yes,” Lionel repeats. After a nod of approval from Cristiano, he acquires more confidence, increasing the speed, the draw of the arm blurred by the movement. His torso is now visibly shaken as he pants, as Lionel allows himself to indulge in the sensations that he is feeling.

 

Cristiano shifts on the chair, feeling his own groin protest at the narrow cage of his jeans. But he manages somehow to maintain a firm voice, although two tones lower.

 

“You were touching your cock and you were thinking about mine. My big, demanding cock, that wants to have so much more from you, doesn’t it?” Cristiano says gruffly.

 

“Yes!” Lionel says, and this time it sounds like a whine.

 

“It wants you all, it wants to get inside you, to fill you all,” Cristiano says, losing every last trace of self-consciousness.

 

Lionel’s movements accelerate and he emits a _delicious_ moan from his tightening lips that vibrates through Cristiano’s body.

 

Cristiano has to close his hands in fists to avoid touching himself, or throwing himself onto Lionel. Especially now, that Lionel is obviously starting to feel weak, all his efforts pushed into the performance that he is giving to Cristiano. He has stumbled back, and is now leaning on the cupboard, curving his back on the cold, metallic surface with closed eyes, exposing a white neck that is just asking to be bitten, as his little, hardened nipples are asking to be sucked.

 

“Don’t close your eyes,” Cristiano commands with a broken voice. It’s only now that he realises that he is panting, as well, affected by the show in front of him.

 

But it still works on Lionel, who promptly obeys. His glaze is glassy, unable to stay focused while he is lost in the heat of the moment. But he is still keen on obeying to Cristiano’s orders, despite the clear effort that such a thing requires.

 

So, even if Cristiano’s voice is not as firm as before, he keeps talking, keeps teasing. At this point he is so completely captured by the strange link he has created between himself and Lionel.

 

“Why do you need to imagine me if I am in front of you?” Cristiano asks.

 

Lionel doesn’t reply to the question. “Cristiano…” he only manages to say weakly, his voice rough.

 

And Cristiano has to get up from his chair because at the sound of his name said in that way the pressure of his groin becomes unbearable.

 

But despite his desire, Cristiano feels a harder need to keep teasing Lionel, to keep pushing and see where his limits really are. He has to grab the peninsula table to keep himself from reaching for him.

 

“Lionel,” he says back, causing Leo to shake. “Lionel Messi,” he repeats with firmer voice. “You want me so much, don’t you?” he asks, though it is no longer a question.  
  
“Yes! Yes, please! Please, Cristiano take me!”

 

“Not yet, baby. You need to keep going. You have to show me that you deserve me,” Cristiano replies, licking his lips again.

 

Lionel moans, half in protest, half in pleasure, but he accelerates the movements of his hand, and now Cristiano can hear the slap of the stimulated flesh.

 

“Keep going,” Cristiano urges. “Keep going. Keep going,” he repeats as a mantra, slowing stepping forward, step by step.

 

And Lionel obeys, getting closer and closer to his peak. He is rubbing against the cupboard now, emitting little strangled sounds. Occasionally he hits the cupboard with his left fist, the need to move getting harder.

 

As Cristiano gets closer he can see the shiny skin spotted by sweat, paler than ever now that the blood is concentrating on one point. He can see Lionel’s torso taking deeper and deeper breaths, the veins on his neck swollen by the effort, the parted lips, a bit chapped because of the open mouth breathing for so long. Lionel has closed his eyes again and his long, dark lashes are throwing shadows onto his high cheekbones. Now Cristiano doesn’t care. He is too hypnotized by Lionel’s movements, intoxicated by the smell of his sweat that is now mixed with the sweeter tone of his pre-cum.

 

Lionel is close. His convulsed shaking is showing this, if not the moans that are now changing into little cries.

 

Close. So close.

 

“STOP!” Cristiano yells, all of a sudden.

 

Lionel obeys, yelling a protesting sound as he opens his eyes and widens them at Cristiano, confused, frustrated, wary. A crease appears on his forehead and he now looks not happy at all. But he _has stopped_ and Cristiano almost wants to kneel down and suck him in gratitude, for being so fantastic.

 

Almost.

 

Cristiano is willing to give him that and much more, but this is not the time. He knows that he can push Lionel a little more. He knows that, as he knows Lionel will likely obey no matter what, and he smiles, drinking in Lionel’s obedience.

 

Lionel has stopped, but is still grabbing his staff, still applying pressure to try to ease his need.

 

“Take away your hand,” Cristiano orders merciless.

 

There is another moan of protest, but after a last grasp, Lionel moves away his hand, and now stays still with both his arms leaning on the cupboard. His fists are squeezed so tight that Cristiano is sure that there will be signs of his nails on the palms afterward.

 

He is rubbing his body on the surface, pushing his dripping cock toward Cristiano like an offering, moving his lips in a silent prayer.

 

“Don’t move, Lionel” Cristiano instructs, now only a couple of feet away. “Just stay there, let yourself be seen.”

 

Lionel hits the cupboard with his fists, and that is the first act of rebellion since they started their little game. But then he is quick to freeze as he is, looking at Cristiano with big eyes, deep and dark for the dilated pupils.

 

“Please!” Lionel manages to say faintly.

 

“As I said, why do you need to imagine your fantasy if I am here?”  
  
“Please!” Lionel repeats, completely unable to say anything more. He blinks tears begin forming in the corner of his eyes.

 

“You want to be fucked, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes!” Lionel says, and all the frustration that he’s feeling is in that single, yelled word. “Please,” he begs again, whining now, as he loses all his strength.

 

Cristiano’s smile is full of derision, utterly satisfied by the state to which he has reduced Lionel.

 

“Then follow me,” he orders, and turns on his feet, without daring a further look at Lionel.

  
The smile on his lips assumes a sweeter line when he hears the thuds of Lionel’s bare feet on the parquet, following him, but Lionel, of course, can’t see it.

 

Cristiano reassumes his mocking attitude when he opens the door of his bedroom to Leo and invites him in, with a gesture of his arm and a fake half bow.

 

“In front of the mirror,” he commands.

 

Cristiano licks his lips when Lionel passes close to him to walk into the room. He doesn’t know how he manages not to touch him, to press a kiss to the curve of his shoulder that looks so soft, so tasty. He is sure that Lionel’s skin tastes marvellous and he looks forward to trying it.

 

But he plays cold, and stays on the jambs, studying Lionel while he walks over the carpet in the centre of the room, in front of the mirrored surface of the wardrobe, as ordered.

 

When Lionel stops, he turns to look at Cristiano, tilting his head, on hold. He looks so lost, so fragile that Cristiano has for a second a crazy wonder of how he managed to survive in the world until now. He looks like a delicious little animal ready to be eaten, and really Cristiano feels like a predator right now.

 

He walks around him, salivating, like a wolf around a sheep, scrolling his eyes all over his body, in appreciation. And Lionel is looking back, hypnotized, with the same look of a rabbit staring at a car’s lights.

 

Cristiano doesn’t say a word, but goes to the drawer of the bed table to grab a condom and the lube. Even from that position, he can feel Lionel’s gaze hitting his back.

 

“Turn, Lionel,” Cristiano eventually says when he is facing him again. “Look at the mirror.”

 

And their eyes are fixed into each other through the reflection as Cristiano moves to reach him from behind. He stops before touching him, but he is close enough to feel the heat radiating from the body in front of him.

 

Lionel is a good head smaller than him and Cristiano is looking clear over him even from a simple standing position. The dominating effect is only increased by the fact that he is still fully dressed in his dark jeans and burgundy shirt, while Lionel is naked, with his arms loose at his sides, not daring to touch himself anymore after being prohibited. His erection is evident, still demanding for more, and still being ignored.

 

But Cristiano feels like he can’t have enough now. Despite the consuming desire to reach for him and lose himself in that wonderful body in front of him, he manages to stay still, and to keep giving orders.

 

“Now kneel in front of me, Lionel Messi.”

 

When Lionel does, without any kind of excitation, Cristiano completely loses his mind. If you had asked him before, he would have never admitted to having such feelings of revenge against Lionel. 

 

He has worked hard to be where he is. He has had his satisfactions, his dark moments like everyone, but in the end he just lives his life, and the rivalry with Messi is just something invented by the journalists, of course.

 

Alright, ok, Cristiano wants to be the best. But this has everything to do with himself, his sense of duty, his dedication, and very little to do with Lionel. Even so, here and now, Cristiano can’t help but remember all the stories, all the comparisons, all the discussion.

 

Yes, all right, he is a good worker, but Messi, oh! Messi is an entirely different story, isn’t he? The talent, the skills, the vision, the geniality.

 

And now here he is, naked, kneeling in front of him, just waiting for his orders.

 

“Who is the king, now, _flea_?”

 

“You,” Lionel says. “It has always been you, Cristiano.”

 

Cristiano smiles widely, satisfied by the reply. “Yes,” he says in a breath and Cristiano can see Lionel’s pupils dilating at the vision of his tanned skin exposed, as he starts to strip, deliberately slow.

 

Ok, let’s face it: Cristiano has always been proud of his own body. He doesn’t need to hide it: he has worked hard to reach his current muscular shape, starting from the slender boy with malnutrition problems that he once was. But the contrast with Lionel is bringing the vision in front of him to the point of perfection. They are so beautiful together, that it should have been obvious that they would end like this.

 

And, actually, _this_ is beyond all of Cristiano expectations, with Lionel kneeling in front of him, getting excited only at the thought of being well fucked by Cristiano, and Cristiano himself towering him from behind. Behind - with his cock that _finally_ has been released and is now free to soar threatening just above Lionel’s head.

 

Cristiano grabs his staff, slowly manipulating it to get it bigger. He smiles with proudness when he sees Lionel looking at it with big eyes, intimidated, if not scared.

 

“Are you ready for this, Lionel?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” he breathes, lips parting while his eyes are completely hypnotised by Cristiano’s sex.

 

Cristiano is half considering making him turn around so he can fill those beautiful, red lips, but he is distracted by Lionel’s voice.

 

And Lionel doesn’t stop there.

 

“I want it so much. Please, Cristiano, help me. I need it. I need to feel…" He breaks off and looks up at Cristiano and widens his eyes, cheeks flushing. "Please."

  
Cristiano’s cock pulses in reaction. If Lionel doesn’t stop saying his name in that way, Cristiano really risks finishing even before they start.

 

“Down all fours,” he urges before is too late.

 

Lionel follows, and then he braces himself, lowering his head between his arms, his face completely hidden by the strands of his dark hair.

 

He is beautiful, and Cristiano indulges himself in drinking the vision of the round, firm cheeks offered in front of him. It’s impossible not be distracted by them, but after few moments of pure worship, Cristiano realises that there is something in that otherwise perfect vision that is making him unhappy. He kneels behind Lionel and pulls his hair, hard.

 

Lionel shouts in protest, lifting his face now twisted by pain, but Cristiano is not impressed, and gives another jerk.

 

“Why do you think I put you in front of a mirror, eh?” Cristiano spits, bending over his body to talk in Lionel’s ear.

 

Lionel is still in pain, with closed eyes and lips curved down, but he manages to speak. “I am sorry Cristiano,” he apologises brokenly. But that is not enough, if he doesn’t open his eyes.

 

“Look at us!” Cristiano orders with another tug. Even if Lionel emits a strangled sound, he manages to obey, revealing dark eyes watering in pain.

 

“We are beautiful, aren’t we?”

 

“Yes,” Lionel agrees, staring at the image of them. In fact, they are: so different and so beautiful together. Lionel looks so fragile and his skin so pale with the contrast of his dark eyes and dark hair that are now messily surrounding his face; Cristiano still looks impeccable, even with a slight flush over his cheeks, the beautiful lips tightened with a little line between his eyes that always appears when he becomes pensive. He looks like a painting of an aristocrat who always looks down on the world with a haughty smile on his lips. 

 

Cristiano’s tone sweetens, as does the touch on Lionel’s hair, which now seems more like a caress than a tug. “Then keep looking at us, ok? Whatever happens, keep looking and don’t lower your eyes.”  


“Yes, Cristiano. I will always look at you.”

 

Cristiano can’t help but chuckle at that. “Stalker,” he comments. But when Lionel looks back at him with confusion – no, worry, as if he has said something inopportune, Cristiano reassures him by ruffling his hair. “It’s ok, Lionel. You’re good. I can understand. Keep looking. I am sure you won’t disappoint me.”

 

Lionel shakes his head, convinced and Cristiano rewards him patting his head like a good dog, before moving back, crouching behind Lionel. The movement is a good occasion for Cristiano to skim his hand from Lionel’s head to his neck, and then over all his backbone, slowly, vertebra by vertebra, appreciating the feeling of the hot skin under his fingers.

 

It really is silky as it looks.

 

When he reaches the curve of his ass, Cristiano fully palms it, humming in appreciation while he can hear an, “Oh?” escaping from Lionel’s lips. It really is one of the most beautiful asses that Cristiano has ever seen: so round, so solid, but still soft enough that touching it is a pleasure. So plump. It’s basically the archetype of the ass to fuck. The mental image of a cock sliding into those perfect cheeks almost drives him mad, and Cristiano can’t help but kiss it in appreciation.

 

Lionel gasps in surprise, and the sound is so cute that Cristiano decides to indulge a little more, licking a strip of skin to find his way to the entrance. It tastes as delicious as Cristiano has imagined. The salty sweat can’t completely overcome a sweet base that, now Cristiano knows, is typically Lionel’s.

 

Cristiano is so lost in him that he could eat him the entire night, if only Lionel weren’t emitting such obscene moans. The sounds were passing directly through Cristiano’s ears to his cock, that is now throbbing and demanding attention.

 

Distracted as he is, Cristiano barely realises that Lionel has started to talk between moans and gulps. “Cristiano,” he calls. “I need more, Cristiano. Give me more! I want you to take me, I want you inside.”

 

Lionel is demanding, and Cristiano is not impressed by that, at all.

 

So, he bites, not particularly gently, resulting in a nice yell from Lionel. And when Cristiano rises up, fixing his gaze on Lionel’s eyes, through the mirror, he is ready to re-establish the roles.

 

“I am the one deciding what you deserve and when you deserve it. Is that understood?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Leo quickly replies. “Please forgive me.”

 

Cristiano blinks at the nickname, taken aback. But he is quick to recover, deciding that he likes it. “Good,” he says with a faint smile, and stresses his appreciation by soothing the spot that he has bitten. He is amazed: truly he hasn’t been gentle, but he also hasn’t been too harsh with his bite. And still, Lionel’s skin has already reacted to the offence, and a red halo is already appearing,

 

Cristiano’s eyes skim over the body in front of him with another intent, now, looking for other visible spots. He can’t find any. There is a faint wonder about the fact that, as long as Cristiano knows, Lionel _should have_ a wife, but at the end, this is not his business, and he is too distracted at the idea of leaving marks in this untouched territory. His hands are now moving without control, squeezing the plump spheres in front of him, humming in appreciation.

 

But when Cristiano accidentally crosses his gaze with Lionel’s, he can see him staring back in expectation, still without saying a word after being scorned.

 

Really, Cristiano has to admit that Lionel is showing a good patience. His over-stimulated cock is being ignored, and for a while he has patiently remained in an uncomfortable position, only mildly improved by the presence of the soft carpet.

 

So, it’s time that Lionel is rewarded with what he obviously wants so badly. And truly, it is not a great sacrifice for Cristiano, although he has to admit that he is enjoying this power game a little too much.

 

He didn’t even know that he has such desires.

 

He blames Lionel for making them emerge, because now that Cristiano knows them, he also knows that wants to indulge in them again. If not with Lionel, he has to find someone else. But even then, Cristiano also knows that the image of Lionel masturbating in front of him, or on his knees, begging to be fucked, will be material for his wet dreams for all the coming years of his life.

 

The lube is at hand, by the pocket of Cristiano’s jeans leaning on the carpet next to them. Cristiano is not miser in the quantity that he’s applying on his middle finger. He doesn’t know Lionel’s body, or how long it has been since he has practised anal sex. He deliberately ignores the irrational waves of jealousy at the idea of Lionel with someone else. The idea of him going around to other men’s houses, offering himself like the most delicious course.

 

It doesn’t matter, no bad thoughts are allowed. Lionel is now here for him and Cristiano has decided to savour every single moment of this unexpected present.

 

Cristiano grabs one hip in front of him and deliberately stares into the mirror with a confident smile while proceeding with his finger toward Lionel’s entrance. Lionel whines, but it’s not that which causes Cristiano’s smile to freeze.

 

He is _tight_. Unexpectedly tight. So tight that even proceeding with only one finger is difficult.

 

It must have been a long time since Lionel has done it, or he must be very tense. This completely changes Cristiano’s plans of quickly proceeding to the stage where he’s fucking him senselessly.

 

It’s like a slap that throws Cristiano back to reality. Obviously when and how Lionel has had sex the last time is none of Cristiano’s business, but at least he needs to know that they are on the same page. That page, for Cristiano, also means not unnecessarily hurting him.

 

“Lionel,” he says with a completely different tone. A very serious one.

 

Lionel must have perceived the change of tone, because he blinks a couple of times, regaining a bit of lucidity. With that, apparently, some embarrassment from the entire situation of being on all fours with a finger in his ass, judging by the spread of red on his cheeks.

 

Cristiano can feel that the same is happening on him, as well, and thanks his African great-grandmother for the tone of his skin that can hide it. Because what he wants Lionel to focus on is his frank expression while he speaks.

  

“I want you to tell me if you are ok with this,” he says.

 

Lionel simply nods, and Cristiano can see by his expression that it’s a very different approval from the “yes” shouted before. They are in a different reality now, and this is very important for Cristiano.

 

“And you are going to tell me if you change your mind. Whenever it happens, it doesn’t matter. You tell me, I stop, ok?”

 

Again, Lionel nods, convinced, and this is all Cristiano needs to get back to where they were.

 

He does it without notification, crooking his finger inside. Lionel yelps, taken aback and he shifts his weight on his knees, as to adjust himself to the new feeling.

 

“And now, instead, you are going to tell me what you do want,” Cristiano says, while slowly moving his finger in little circles.

 

“You know what I want,” Leo pants, his eyes regaining their glassiness. “I want you inside me, Cristiano.” He stresses the words, pushing his ass up, trying to get more contact with Cristiano’s hand. “I want you all over me,” he continues. “I want to disappear in you.”

 

Cristiano hums, satisfied by the reply, while he removes his finger and recaps the lube. “The point is, my little flea,” he says applying a generous amount of lube on two of his fingers, this time, “that you don’t seem ready to me, you know?”

 

“I am!” Leo protests with an outraged glare that really looks ridiculous behind the sweaty straws of hair falling on his forehead and down to his eyes.

 

“You are,” Cristiano patronises. “Of course.” He positions himself again crouched behind Lionel, with one hand massaging his side, and the other resting on the entrance of his ass, depositing some of the lube.

 

Again, he doesn’t give any notice when he decides to enter with half of the length of his fingers, causing another tremor from Lionel, stronger than the previous one. It’s so strong that Cristiano has to surround his waist with his free hand and keep him in place.

 

“And that’s why even a couple of little fingers are having such a hard time to find their way, eh?”

 

Lionel is moving and moaning incoherently, and Cristiano is not sure if in pleasure or pain. Both, probably. As a consequence, Cristiano needs to strengthen his grip to keep him place and allow his fingers to do their job. Lionel is still too tight and the wrong movement could hurt him.

 

“I need you to relax, flea,” Cristiano says, sliding his free hand to his groin. He is now applying the same circular movements: with one hand palming his balls, and the fingers stretching his canal, step by step.

 

That is working. He can see Lionel licking his lips between moans, his little torso swallowing for deeper breaths. If nothing else, Cristiano can feel now that he can proceed with his fingers to their ends.

 

“I need you to open wide for me,” he continues. “I need you to be ready to host all of me.”

 

“I am ready,” Lionel repeats again in protest, but with a much harsher voice.

 

“Not yet,” Cristiano mocks. “I really think that you are underestimating me.”

 

“No,” Leo pants, grabbing the carpet. “I can—I can endure…”

 

Cristiano can see now that Lionel’s movements are less incoherent: he is acquiring a rhythm, rubbing his pelvis on both his hands. Cristiano must not watch it too much, or he’s going to lose all his control. His cock, for sure, is appreciating it and it’s hard for Cristiano to ignore his needs. But for the moment, he somehow manages to play cold. “You are doing well,” he recognises, “but you need a little more.”

 

“No!” Lionel protests. “I am going—I don’t want to—.” He licks his lips again and gulps, unable to finish a coherent sentence. “I need you now, Cristiano,” he pleads at the end.

 

Cristiano nods, understanding, and moves his hand away from Lionel’s groin, simply placing it on his back. “Just a little more. You are doing so well, Lionel, you can last a little more for me, can’t you?”  


Lionel just stares at him for a few seconds, his lips parted for the pants. And then his expression changes: he smiles a little mischievous smile, shaking his head.

 

And then he puts himself in a brace position.

 

Cristiano freezes, astonished. He is _provoking_ him. He is deliberating doing something that he was told not to do. But it’s a good thing that Lionel can’t see him, because instead of being offended, Cristiano grins.

 

Lionel is managing to make things even more interesting.

 

Cristiano probes the malleability of Lionel and when he feels confident that he can operate safely, he twists the fingers, spreading them wide

 

Lionel immediately reacts, curving his back down and forward. His screaming head is now on display through the mirror's reflection. He is still closing his eyes but is an improvement.

 

Cristiano has no pity, though, and follows the movement of the body in front of him, continuing to dig his fingers inside.

 

“I can see how ready you are,” he mocks.

 

“You are right,” Lionel pants. “You are always right. Please, Cristiano, have mercy,” Lionel says, managing somehow to return to his position.

 

Cristiano realises that Lionel’s screams are more for the surprise, or for the show, than for the real pain. Because from the way in which he is able to manoeuvre, now, Cristiano can tell that Lionel is much looser, and he should, indeed, be ready.

 

“No,” Cristiano says, stripping away his fingers, ignoring the protesting sound from Lionel. “Now you are going to get what you deserve,” he says grabbing the package of the condom and opening it.

 

Cristiano hums contented even at the touch of his own hands on his throbbing cock. Indeed, it has been ignored for too long tonight, all his attention dedicated to Lionel. But when he lifts his eyes after putting the condom on, he can see why that happened.

 

Lionel observing him through the mirror with big, wary eyes is such a beautiful sight.

 

Cristiano can see the effect that he is having and is indulging in it, giving a show. He deliberately strokes his hand over his cock, slowly, pointing it to the mirror, while he talks. “And you really think that you are ready to take it, as easy as drinking a glass of water?”

 

“No,” Lionel says, and Cristiano can see he is tensing. “I mean, I can endure.”

 

“We’ll see, little flea,” Cristiano says, hinting at Lionel exposed ass. “Spread your legs wider, then. Get ready for me. And don’t forget: Never. Lower. Your. Eyes.”

 

Lionel gulps and obeys, doing what he has been told.

 

Cristiano smiles when he grabs him by his hips and slides into him. He’s slow but relentless while proceeding through all the way until his length is sheathed. It’s hard to stop there, when he can feel Lionel’s soft heat surrounding him, but he wants savour the vision of Lionel’s bravery in taking it. As instructed, Lionel has never lost his gaze throughout the entire process. A bit of discomfort is evident through the tightened lips, and the nostrils widened by the big breaths. But he hasn’t said a word about stop or being slower.

 

“Good boy,” Cristiano comments moving back and forward again, still slowly.

 

“I can endure,” Lionel repeats, with a broken voice.

 

Cristiano half smiles, lifting an eyebrow. “And what about this?” he says, as he sinks his fingers into the soft skin and pushes ahead with a sudden move.

 

This time Lionel screams, unable to speak.

 

“And this?” Cristiano asks again, repeating the gesture. “This? This?” he urges, while building a rhythm in his movements.

 

Lionel’s initial scream has changed in small little cries now. Still, it takes some hits before Lionel is able to reply. “Yes! Yes,” he shouts. “I can. I want.”

 

“Oh, really,” Cristiano says, slowing the rhythm to apply a circular movement. “Then why do you have your eyes closed, flea?”

 

Lionel immediately opens his eyes, flustered, as if he hasn’t even realised that he has closed them.

 

Cristiano smiles, satisfied, and surrounds his waist with an arm, grabbing him and tugging him closer, appreciating all the contact that he manages to have. Because there is not only Lionel’s ass tightening around him, while Cristiano keeps applying pressure with his circular movements. There is also Lionel’s cheeks rubbing against his thighs and groin, his cock pulsing so close to Cristiano’s arm that he can feel his heat spreading, the hardness of his small nipples that Cristiano is now nibbling with his free hand.

 

And then, of course, there is Lionel’s voice, that is already perfect in its strangled sounds, but that Cristiano prefers to keep hearing in appreciation of him.

 

“How do you feel?” Cristiano asks. “What is it liked to be fucked by me, Lionel Messi?”

 

“It’s—ah!” Lionel punches the carpet, frustrated at being unable to talk. The truth is: Cristiano has just discovered the perfect place to stimulate him, and he is taking his time, deliberately hitting him harder and harder.

 

“Answer me, Lionel! Tell me, how do you feel,” Cristiano urges, accelerating his rhythm.

 

“Good,” Lionel manages to say before licking his chapped lips and gulping. “Big. Hot.”

 

“Good?” Cristiano asks with husky voice, grabbing his hips again.

 

“Yes! Yes! So good, Cristiano. So hot.”

 

“Are you going to show me, Lionel? Are you going to come for me?”

 

“Yes,” Lionel cries out. “I will do everything for you!” He stresses his words while moving his ass back and Cristiano sees stars. He almost loses his grip, and this time he is the one that has to close his eyes, defeated by the waves of pleasure.

 

He can hear Lionel’s broken voice keep saying, “I will be good for you. I will do whatever you want.”

 

Cristiano opens his eyes, a look of determination mixing with a frown. Later on, he won’t be able to explain what happened to him, and the only justification he can give is how Lionel has been intoxicating the entire night, how the last pliant words break the last strings of control in Cristiano’s head.

 

“You are such a cock lover,” he states, pushing harder, not caring anymore about the signs that his nails are surely leaving.

 

“Yes!” Lionel admits, almost in cries. His body is swinging by now, his arms unable to brace against Cristiano’s hits.

 

“Such a cock lover that you are going to come untouched, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes! Yes!”

 

“Are you coming now, Messi? Are you coming because of my big, hard cock hitting you?”  
  
“Yes! No,” Lionel gulps. “Not. Yet.”

 

“When then? How much patience do I need to have with you?” Cristiano shouts, over the sound of their slapping flesh.

 

“I am sorry, Cristiano. I am sorry!”

 

“You came to me, _Leo_ , now come _for_ me!”

 

Lionel grunts in exasperation, his forehead creasing and brows furrowing. He looks so determined, so totally focused in his effort to satisfy Cristiano. When Lionel’s breath changes, getting quicker and more erratic, Cristiano knows he is closer, and that’s when he is hit by a sudden need.

 

 Cristiano lifts him up on his knees, one arm surrounding his chest and the other his waist, still carefully avoiding touching his erection.

 

The position is changing their rhythm, and now Cristiano can’t go as deep as before. But the show in front of him is completely worth it.

 

Cristiano leans ahead, resting his chin on Lionel’s shoulder.

 

“Look at you, Lionel. Look at how beautiful you are while you are being fucked by me.”

 

Lionel’s dilated eyes wander over his white skin shining with sweat, his red cock desperately demanding to be touched, his hard nipples, one of them tortured between Cristiano’s fingers. And then back to his own flustered face, with his lips red by from the bites, and his hair now stuck on his sweaty forehead. Even through the haze of bliss, the wariness, the search of Cristiano’s approval is evident when Lionel moves his gaze to the other’s face.

 

Cristiano has now lost a bit of his perfection, with few rebellious curls dropping onto his forehead. He is flustered, as well, and even under his skin tone, the flush of blood on his cheeks is now visible. He is panting, all focused in the action. It is true that he can’t go harder like before, but the position is much more intimate: the contact with Lionel’s back is over stimulating his nipples, and the feeling of Lionel’s cheeks enfolding his cock is making him seeing stars.

 

“Come on, Lionel,” he urges again, “come for me.” He doesn’t add: or I am going to come instead, but, really, it’s implied.

 

Lionel moans, throwing back his head, rubbing his body against Cristiano. He’s looking for as much contact as possible, drinking in the feeling of their skin rubbing against each other’s, squeezing and releasing his cheeks according to the rhythm dictated by Cristiano’s thrusts.  When he finally comes, his cock throbs desperately in the air while it releases its load over Lionel’s stomach.

 

Now Lionel is kept in place only by Cristiano, all the strength of his body gone. He is panting heavily. His head is hanging, and his eyes are closed behind his fringe, all the colour on his cheeks having drained away from the exertion.

 

“Look how beautiful you are, Lionel,” Cristiano demands again, while still moving inside him. His broken voice now has assumed a new, proud tone.

 

Lionel only manages to half open his eyes under his dark lashes, but a faint yet satisfied smile curves across his lips. Together with Cristiano he directs his gaze to his stomach, where drips of his load are dropping down and drawing shiny patterns on his skin.

 

Cristiano follows those patterns with two fingers, amazed, and eventually picks up some of the liquid. He brings it up to Lionel’s mouth.

 

Without being prompted, Lionel’s pink tongue instinctively peeps out and licks the fingers from the base to the top. They are then engulfed in soft, burning lips, before Leo starts to suck.

 

That is too much.

 

Cristiano eventually lets go of Lionel, falling ahead, unable to sustain his feeble body anymore, unable to do anything else than satisfy his over-excited cock.

 

Lionel now goes down, his hands and face pressed on the carpet. It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter if he can’t see or appreciate Cristiano’s body. Maybe Cristiano will punish him later, but right now, the only important thing, for Cristiano, is getting what he needs so badly that it is nearly making him sick.

 

Cristiano clamps both his arms against Lionel’s waist, lifting up his pelvis, looking to the perfect angle that allows him to dig deeper and deeper.

 

“You are mine, Messi,” he states between his pants. “You are all mine now.”  
  
Cristiano can’t hear if Lionel is replying, but he can recognise the sound of Lionel’s moans. Even if they are muffled by the carpet, those sounds are what fill Cristiano’s head while he has one of the best orgasms of his life.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It's like coming down from a great height. Cristiano feels blurred. He is panting, too much, for too long, and he realises that he is on the edge of hyperventilation.

He gulps, trying to calm down. And also, tries to move and pull up a bit of his weight from the body he's crushing.

Cristiano proceeds slowly, bringing a hand to his now soft cock so that the condom can be kept in place. He carefully moves without pressing an elbow or a knee on the body below, and he is suddenly hit by the cold air. He shivers in discomfort. Really, the post-orgasm cosiness felt better, but he can't stay down there forever. 

And that's when Cris is hit by what he has just done. Because in front of him is Lionel Messi. The real one, blood and flesh, and not a stupid idea he was fucking with about getting some kind of sick revenge.

It's Lionel Messi, still lying face down on the carpet with his head hid in the crossed arms, the only visible part being the back of his body and the mass of messy hair, darkened by sweat.

The cold must be having an effect on him, as well, because Cristiano swears that he recognises faint shivers running through his body.

And really Cristiano doesn't know what to do. The hand he's extending stops only few millimetres away from the pale skin of Messi's back, not daring, for some reason, to touch him. 

The point is that Cristiano is utterly confused. He has never done before what he has just done with Messi. It's not like he has never had occasional sex, but it has never been like… that.

He doesn't even know what he to tell him now. Sorry? Thank you? Wow, that was great!? But what was that, by the way?

Does Lionel even know? Had he really planned all of that when he came to Cristiano's house?

Cristiano decides that he needs a bit of time to recover, to think. Some fresh water on his face will help, he's sure. "I am going to get some towels," he finally announces as he manages, not without some efforts, to rise up into a standing position.

There is no reply from the man below him. Nor is there a single movement. Cristiano shrugs. He pulls off his condom and knots it, grabs his clothes and then moves outside the room, legs still shaking.

 

When he enters his bathroom, Cristiano throws his clothes in the laundry bin, the condom in the trash, and then finally collapses to lean on the sink, trying to regain his breath. Without really intending to, he looks at his face reflected by the mirror. He immediately flushes and looks away, not exactly ready to see himself. Not yet.

When his wandering gaze focuses on the shower, Cristiano feels the irresistible need to clean himself. A little bit, he just wants a quick splash, but he's starving for it.

And so he does it. And although Cristiano maintains his personal promise to be quick, a flow of thoughts starts to stream, uninvited, through his brain, as the lukewarm water is streaming down his body.

The smell of Lionel Messi.

That was a nice smell though.

He has laid Lionel Messi.

The king of Barcelona has ended up being really pleasant fucking material. It's unexpected.

And now? How is he supposed to go and look at him at the next Clasico, and not see the image of his face as he came in front of Cristiano's mirror?

Rephrase: how he is going to look at him in five minutes, when Cristiano is going to have to back from the bathroom?

Cristiano gets out of the shower stall and quickly dries himself with a soft bathrobe, keeping it on. He grabs some towels for Lionel, but when he has the cold fabric in his hand, decides that maybe it would be more pleasant if he warms them a bit. The dryer might be a solution. He can also take the occasion and drink some water. Really, he is thirsty.

The thoughts never stop, as he quickly descends the wooden stairs.

It was definitely a good fuck. Cristiano's body is utterly satisfied.

Well, tired, as well: it has been also an intense fuck.

And that's why he is now drinking half a water bottle, while putting the towel into the microwave. Maybe he should grab something to drink for Lionel, he ponders. Maybe something to reintegrate mineral salts.

The elephant in the room: what the hell happened to Cristiano? How could he have manhandled him in that way?

He is Lionel Messi.

Not a good reason.

He seemed to like it.

Is it a good reason?

He asked for it.

He asked to be fucked. Not necessarily… everything else.

Cristiano closes his eyes, in pain, lulled by the microwave's noise. Unwanted memories from the beginning of the night drift into his head. Lionel could have had some sort of homosexual revelation. Came to the first person that he had thought of to try to understand himself. And Cristiano had taken advantage of him.

No, no, no. He didn't ask for advice. He clearly asked to be fucked.

Not like that.

He liked it though.

The dryer's beep startles him. The towels are perfect: warm and soft. The Gatorade is ready in his hand. And Cristiano is not a coward. So, he should stop wandering around the house, and stop thinking about the "ifs" and "buts," and eventually face Lionel.

Cristiano braces himself. He hopes to find a Messi that can discuss with what happened in a reasonable way, and possibly also explain what exactly brought him there. Or, you know, what exactly he wants from Cristiano. A part from, obviously, having sex.

He's worried that he's going to find a very angry Messi. He's seen him angry on the pitch. He's like a little crocodile that bites you and never lets it go. He's gotten yellow cards basically only for protesting, and that says a lot.

Cristiano hopes, really hopes and prays that he is not finding a Messi full of regrets and shame. He is not ready to comfort someone who had thought that having gay sex would be great and now regrets it. It makes Cristiano really uncomfortable, as if what he does on a daily basis is wrong. And if that is not enough, that he should also be somehow expected to comfort someone for trying it once. He can do it, he has done it, but it's a façade and Cristiano hates façades.

He braces himself as he approaches the door to the bedroom, ready for confrontation.

What Cristiano finds instead, when he enters into his bedroom, wasn't even in the table of possibilities in Cristiano's mind. Messi is still lying prone on the carpet. The half-imagined shivers are now very visible trembling running through his body. A body that is already painted with the marks that Cristiano has left.

That is not regret. That is real discomfort, if not pain. Emotional, but also physical, Cristiano dreads.

"Oh my God, Lionel!" Cristiano is quick to run to him and crouch by his side. He brushes his back, his closest arm, his neck, gently but firmly prompting him to look up. When Lionel reluctantly does, he shows red and watery eyes and trembling lips. Cristiano feels sick at the idea the he has been the cause of… that.

"I am so sorry. Did I hurt you?" Cris asks, moving Lionel's sweaty hair out of his eyes.

Lionel looks up at him, and takes some seconds to focus on him. But, in the end, he shakes his head. 

Cristiano should be relieved by the negation, but really, he is not. He can't be, as long as Lionel looks like that. Like Cristiano has never seen him, not even after a loss. 

"Did I scare you, Lionel?" Cristiano asks with a softer voice, never stopping the combing of his hair. 

Lionel shakes his head again, increasing the confusion in Cristiano's brain. Cris lifts him up more into a sitting position and now strokes both of his arms, not sure if he wants to give him more warmth or more comfort. Lionel is still trembling and Cristiano can feel gooseflesh under his palms. 

"I am so sorry," Lionel eventually says, with such a small voice that Cristiano half wonders if he has imagined it.

"Sorry for what?" Cristiano asks, combining the soothing movements with a reassuring smile.

"I should have never come. I-," Lionel breaks off, shakes his head and losing his words. 

"No," Cristiano is quick to deny. "You are welcome here. I mean-," he starts.

But Lionel keeps talking, lost in his own loop of thoughts. "I came here and it was an imposition."

"No!"

"You didn't want me."

"I can totally assure you that…"

"You left me alone," Lionel finally states, with an accusing look. It is a sparkle of something, soon after Lionel is lost, lowering and shaking his head. But Cristiano is sure that he hasn't imagined it.

That. 

Well, Lionel is right about leaving him alone. But the reason is so different from what Lionel imagines. Alright, maybe Cristiano is not able to name the exact reason, but, for sure, it has nothing to do with rejecting him.

"I-I just wanted to grab you some towels. Here, see?" Cristiano says taking them to show them to Lionel, but he doesn't sound convincing even to his own ears. He feels guilty, that's the truth. He left in order to overcome his own confusion and as a result he has managed to harm Lionel, which was the last thing that, really, he wanted to do.

"You left me," Lionel repeats, but this time with a completely different tone in his voice. "You were disgusted. I disappointed you. As I've disappointed everyone. With reason too. I am such a…"

"Stop it!" Cris says in a much more authoritative voice. It wasn't intended to be. It's just… Cristiano can't stand to listen to Lionel blaming himself when he hasn't done anything wrong. Lionel came to his house confused, and if there is someone to blame about how things ended up, that's only going to be Cristiano. 

But his change of tone does seem to have an effect on Lionel. He stops rambling, for a start. And he's now looking at Cristiano with a sort of expectation. 

Cristiano doesn't completely understand the change, but whatever works, and he is happy to comply. "Now, come with me," Cristiano says, trying to maintain a tone that's sweet but unyielding at the same time.

He helps him up and guides him on the bed. Really Lionel is not resisting at all. And he actually looks little better. He isn't shivering any more, for a start, although the gooseflesh remains as it was. It's like… paying attention to Cristiano's prompts gives him some focus and his mind doesn't continue to wander in his jumble like a ship in a storm without sails. Whatever the storm is. 

Whatever: at least he's no longer the mess that was laying on the carpet, and that's good.

When Leo is sitting on the edge of the bed, Cristiano couches in front of him, lowering himself to his eye level in order to talk. Cristiano deliberately ignores his nakedness, and the marks on his body. The two things give him two completely opposing feelings. Never mind, not now.

"You did nothing wrong coming here," Cristiano says, rubbing his upper arms. "You did nothing wrong with me."

"But you left me," Lionel protests one last time. And, again, his voice reveals a weird mixture of accusation and desperation.

"I know. But that was on me. Not on you. And I promise you that I will never repeat that mistake again." There's a tiny little part in Cristiano's brain that thrills at the implications of that "again," but Cristiano decides to ignore it, for the moment. Not now.

"I am going to grab the towels, ok?" Cristiano explains, reassuring Lionel that he is not about to abandon him again. He physically feels Lionel's eyes scrutinising him while he goes back to the carpet and grabs the towels and the drink he had left there. Cristiano doesn't know if Lionel is only studying him or if he is still worried that Cristiano will leave him alone again, and he's feeling more and more sorry realising that he has, somehow, betrayed Lionel's trust in him.

He comes back and crouches again in front of Leo, who is still studying his movements. He hasn't said a word since Cristiano guided on the bed. He hasn't even moved a muscle, has just stayed there, on hold.

So Cristiano conforms and starts cleaning him up, brushing one of the towels over his torso. It's so weird, but not in an unpleasant way. It's like… cleaning a doll? His sexy doll? Well, indeed he is sexy: Lionel is tiny, but still with such beautiful muscles.

Focus. Not now.

And in any case Lionel is not a doll at all. There is still a fire in him. Some kind of rage that emerges here and there, just under a messy surface showing sadness, regret and a sense of general disorientation. He's more like an animal. A lost, wounded animal that used to be powerful and now doesn't know how to deal with this weak condition.

Cristiano may not know how to deal with that either, but he has learnt from his mistakes. He sees that taking control of Lionel's needs, them being sex, or simply needing to be clean, is soothing him. And if Cristiano is honest with himself, he has to admit that, somehow, he likes the idea of taking care of Lionel. It's like they are touching the same chords of the beginning of the night. Making a different sound, so to say, but yes, the instrument is the same. 

And Cristiano is feeling a similar same sense of power as the one he had felt before, only on a different level. Sweeter, deeper. Well, Cristiano likes power, that's for sure. In every aspect he is offered it. So he may be puzzled by what Lionel is offering him, but surely he's not refusing it.

"It's good, isn't it?" he asks, feeling Lionel relaxing a bit under his caring hands.

When Cristiano looks up searching for a reply he's met by Lionel's dark, attentive eyes. It's as if he's pondering whether or not he can really trust him. Lionel nods. It's a small, slight movement, but still a little victory for Cristiano.

"Good. I warmed them up for you. And that's what took so long."

Lionel nods again, but Cristiano doesn't miss that he also clenches the sheets.

"Lionel," Cristiano calls, obtaining his full attention. "I need you to trust me," he says.

Lionel nods again, this time more convinced. This time, looking Cristiano in the eyes. But still, he hasn't relaxed his hands.

Cristiano stops his activity on Lionel's lower stomach. "You trusted me before. Can you trust me again? Right now?" he prompts again.

Lionel stays silent, pondering, for some seconds before replying. "Yes, Cristiano," he says in a low voice. And again, Cristiano is mesmerised by how soft and deep it sounds. How beautiful his name is, pronounced with his Argentinian accent. It's running through his body, having more of an effect than what he sees.

Focus.

"Good," Cristiano says, moving the towel to Lionel's personal parts, working as a professional, if that makes sense. Trying his best not to make it awkward. Trying to dismiss Lionel's sounds: the deep breath in as he is touched. "Good," he repeats, murmuring to himself.

Cristiano releases a breath and grabs a new, clean towel with the intention of rubbing away the cold sweat as well. He starts with his legs. Those powerful legs typical of a football player. There is not so much to clean, Cristiano mocks to himself. He can't remember how many times he has joked about Lionel's height with Sergio. But he knows that they were apotropaic jokes. Trying to make funny what scares you. And, indeed, while Cristiano grabs Lionel's left foot he feels a thrill go through him.

Lionel must have felt something change, maybe, because he moves his foot away. When Cristiano looks up, though, he maintains a perfect poker face, as if nothing has happened. So, Cristiano ignores it, as well, and changes position, kneeling in front of him so that he can gain some height and rub his arms more easily. 

In the meantime, Lionel looks more pensive now, fixing his gaze in front of himself rather than on Cristiano. Cristiano swears that he can hear the thoughts in his head, in the silence of the room, disturbed only by the soft rubbing of cotton over skin. Cristiano wonders: how much he can dare. He squeezes Lionel's hand, bringing his attention on him, linking their eyes together. "Would you like to tell me what brought you here tonight?" Cristiano asks in a slow, controlled voice.

Cristiano can immediately see the struggle in Lionel's face. His eyes widen, his nostrils enlarge taking in deep breaths. And still doesn't tell Cristiano to hell - he had all the rights- and looks almost reluctant to deny something to Cristiano, in his slow shaking of head.

"It's ok. It's ok," Cristiano is quick to tell him, pressing again his hand, trying to give him some comfort. "If you don't want to tell me. It's ok," he reassures.

"I am sorry." And Lionel looks so broken that Cristiano immediately regrets having put him in this position.

"Don't say sorry. I said it's ok. You don't have to tell me anything. It doesn't matter. Whatever is outside here doesn't matter, as long as you are being honest with what happens here, ok?" Cristiano says, trying to recover. But his voice is edgy, infected by Lionel's raising panic.

And so, still Lionel replies: "I disappointed you."

It's the second times he's said that tonight, Cristiano notices. What is breaking him is clearly revolving around that idea. Well, at least now Cristiano knows how to act to calm him.

"I am the one deciding when I am disappointed, here," Cristiano says, frowning.

This has the expected effect on Lionel. His panic slows down, and Cristiano can swear that he can see a slight up-curve on his lips. 

So, Cristiano stays behind the wheel. He tosses away the last towel and sits next to Lionel, putting the drink into his hands. 

"Drink this," he commands. While Lionel complies, Cristiano is a bit distracted by the rhythmic Adam's apple movement. Not. Now.

Now Cristiano has a very important thing to say. And it's crucial that he remains calm and focused, and manages to transmit his self-confidence to Lionel.

Cristiano waits patiently until Lionel finishes drinking, and then puts a hand on his thigh, soothing it. He looks very earnestly at him when he talks. "Now I am giving you a choice," he says. "And I won't be disappointed whatever your choice will be, ok? But only you can make this decision." 

Lionel clenches the empty bottle at those words, the sound of the crumpled plastic disturbing the otherwise silent room. But this time Cristiano's tone doesn't give room to deny him, and Lionel slowly nods, compliant.

"Now, you can stay here for the night, or I can call Jose and tell him to bring you where you want."

Lionel doesn't reply. Not yet. He looks at the bottle in his hands, resting on his legs, thinking. 

And Cristiano, well, he knows better than to urge him to speak. He patiently waits, leaving his hand on Lionel's leg, hoping to pass a little reassurance, together with the warmth of their skin to skin contact.

"I-," Lionel gulps and his voice manages to gain some strength. "I want to stay," he says in the end.

Cristiano is happy with choice, obviously. He keeps a calm demeanour, taking note of Lionel's decision with a simple nod, but he's happy with the choice. But actually, that also answers to his previous question, in part. Because it's one thing if this is a single fuck, maybe to satisfy some kink or curiosity. But if Lionel is not going back to his perfect-for-advertisement family then there are some troubles in paradise, not necessarily linked to his recent sporting debacles.

"Ok, then," Cristiano says, getting up. He immediately feels Lionel tensing again. It hurts: apparently there is nothing that he can do to make him trust him. Lionel is still scared that Cristiano will go somewhere (where? This is his house!) and abandon him. 

Well, whatever happened has obviously burnt him, so Cristiano needs only a little more patience. "I am just grabbing something for the night," he explains, even if Lionel hasn't asked him anything, really.

Cristiano doesn't wait for a reply from Lionel - and in any case it never arrives. He doesn't want to seem like he needs Lionel's permission to move. And he takes off his bathrobe in an easy way, without turning to face Lionel or giving a show. Still, he can feel Lionel's eyes on his body, and the hissing breath in when he slips. Cristiano's pleased with the response, but he's happy that, with his back facing Lionel, he can hide his satisfied smile, and act as if he is unaffected, putting on a loose t-shirt and a pair of gym trousers.

He then grabs the smallest gym clothes that he has, to bring them to Lionel. And then he stays there, standing in front of Lionel who is still seated. Cristiano deliberately stares at him while he gets dressed. And then he gives a final approving nod after Lionel finishes the process.

Cristiano finally climbs on the bed, turning the light off. Lionel sprawls out next to him. And that's when an awkward moment begins. He doesn't really feel like hugging Lionel. Maybe he should, but Cristiano feels exposed, as there is no more space for the façade. And he can't pretend an intimacy that is not there. Not yet.

And still, he can hear from Lionel's breathing that he isn't sleeping. And God knows what is passing through his mind. And maybe they are not intimate, but Cristiano feels genuinely sorry for Lionel's struggles.

And then… there is a change in Lionel's breathing. It's more irregular, erratic. Cristiano tenses, all ears. He's not sure, he can't really tell. All the sounds coming from Lionel are as low and soft as his voice. He really doesn't know if Lionel is actually be crying. 

But the doubt is enough for Cristiano to find the courage and break the wall between them. He reaches out for him, finding his head. Just by touching him, Cristiano can guess his position: Lionel is laying on his side, having his back to him.

Lionel doesn't say a word at the touch, but he doesn't move away either. So Cristiano moves, combing his hair, caressing his head. It takes a few minutes, but eventually Cristiano can feel that Lionel starts to relax, his breathing becoming more and more regular as it deepens into sleep. 

"I'll take care of you," Cristiano eventually says, although even he is not sure that he's said it aloud. Or -in any case- loud enough for Lionel to hear. It doesn't matter. It was not really said to Lionel, but more to himself. He will take care of him. He will not let a person who, for better or for worse, has such an important role in Cristiano's life disappear in his own darkness like this.

Having heard or not, Lionel lets out a deep sigh. Soon after, his breathing is revealing that he has, indeed fallen asleep. And only then does Cristiano allow himself to nod off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter. As a rule: I have no rules about the length of chapters. But the next one should be longer.

The Mi Band’s buzz wakes Cristiano at 7 a.m., as it does every day. It’s a sunny day, the light of the dawn is peeping through the curtains that Cristiano deliberately hasn’t completely closed. He likes waking up with the light of the day. It sets him in the right mood for action. It’s one of the things for which he’s very grateful for his transfer from the dark, rainy Manchester.

What’s different from the other days, is that when Cristiano sits up, rubbing his eyes, he finds Lionel Messi peacefully sleeping next to him. Cristiano freezes, with his hands in mid-air. Last night’s memories flow back, uninvited.

That. Was. Awkward.

Cristiano ruffles his hair, in an attempt to sweep away a growing headache.

He looks down again. Lionel is sleeping in a prone position, with his face half covered by his hair. Indeed, he looks peaceful, so unlike the way he had looked the evening before. Cristiano still doesn’t get what has brought him here, and can’t even start with what has led to the two of them...

Ok, alright, not the right moment to think about that. He doesn’t necessarily need a bad case of morning glory now.

And really, there’s nothing sexy about Lionel. He’s somehow cute, that’s true. He looks younger than his age. Something that Cristiano might have envied, if only his aspect had something that Cristiano would have wished for himself. Let’s forget about his nose or his ears, that even now are peeking from his hair. He’s… well, let’s say that Lionel clearly doesn’t seem to dedicate too much time to grooming himself. Surely he doesn’t pluck his eyebrows. Or tan. Or apply proper facial cream, judging from some red spots Cristiano can observe here and there. Or even properly shave. And Cristiano knows that this sloppiness is not due to the recent events, even if those indubitably don’t help. 

No, Lionel is definitely not Cristiano’s type. And still, he manages to be cute. Cute in a way that is attractive to Cristiano. Right now, he’s more like someone that Cristiano would like to cuddle with as opposed to snog. It’s strange: Cristiano’s preferences usually don’t go with cuteness, but, indeed, this morning, he finds it hard to resist the temptation of running his fingers through Lionel’s hair, now that he knows how soft it is.

Lionel would wake up at his caresses. Maybe now he would be calmer. Maybe he would be able to talk.

But then, on the other hand, he seems so peaceful that Cristiano doesn’t really feel like wanting to wake him up. He’s wondering if he can leave him a note, telling him that he can stay as long as he wants. 

But a sudden thought runs through Cristiano’s head. A very clear image, from the night before. Lionel’s expression, when Cristiano had left him alone. How desperate he was. His fear of being abandoned. 

Surely Cristiano can’t risk that again. What can reassure him that if he leaves now, heading to the training facilities, leaving only a note on the bed-table… what can reassure Cristiano that Lionel won’t feel the same way as before? Abandoned? Scared?

No, Cristiano can’t leave and focus on his training with that thought. He needs to wake him up now, and also try to be quick about it, if he doesn’t want to be late.

In the end Cristiano doesn’t comb Lionel’s hair, sensing the gesture is too intimate for them. Whatever “them” means. Rephrase: if there is even a them here when Lionel wakes up. Something that Cristiano can’t take for granted.

He gently shakes Lionel’s shoulder instead. Without results. Cristiano is amused: really Lionel has some kind of youthfulness that lasts through the years, and it’s not only on his face.

“Lionel,” he calls him by his name, shaking him slightly harder.

Lionel comes back to the world slowly.

His face goes through an entire range of expressions that Cristiano can recognise very well: he has seen them so many times on his fans. The confusion first, the slow recognition, the total surprise. Cristiano has to swallow the “yes, it’s me” that is about to come out as a reflexive impulse.

But then Lionel must somehow remember what has happened, judging from the red spreading on his cheeks.

“I am sorry to wake you up,” Cristiano cuts down Lionel’s panic right from the start, “but I need to go to training.”

“Oh, do you want me to leave?” He’s already, moving, as if he wants to get out of the bed immediately and skedaddle.

“No,” Cristiano is quick to reassure him, grabbing Lionel’s arm. “Do you?” He asks slower, with a deeper voice.

Lionel lowers his head and shakes it, silently, already surrendering. He clings to the sheet for a second before raising his head with a different light in his eyes. A light that Cristiano is starting to know. To dread, somehow. It’s immediately obvious to Cristiano that what Lionel wants to do is keep playing his little game, and Cristiano can’t help but be thrilled, even before Lionel speaks.

“I just want to do what you want me to do,” he says in his slurring accent. Sweet as honey, equally sticky. 

And Cristiano is already trapped.

Cristiano’s body immediately reacts and this time he can’t do anything to avoid the imminent boner. He would be inviting Lionel to give him a blow job if he didn’t know better. 

“I have to go training,” he repeats. But somehow his body acts by himself, uncaring of Cristiano’s football duties. Because Cristiano’s hand uncontrollably slides through Lionel’s arms to finally land on Lionel’s cheek, the thumb caressing his lips. 

Lionel’s mouth parts slightly, just enough for his thumb to enter and for Cristiano to savour the heaven that Lionel is promising him.

Cristiano feels a shock when the tip of his finger is lightly touched by Lionel’s tongue. He pulls his hand back, burnt.

“I need to go now,” he repeats once again. “Later.”

Lionel nods, looking Cristiano straight in the eyes. Solemn, like he has just bonded himself in a promise.

Cristiano has to run away from those deep, dark eyes. And still parting from Lionel requires all his will and strength. And he knows he has a lot of both. He manages somehow to walk to the bedroom door in a more or less confident way, even if he feels like he has to run as quick as possible. And before he can talk he needs to clear his voice.

“Feel free to help yourself with the bathroom and kitchen. I am going to take care of the cleaner and the guards,” he manages to say, in a casual tone. And still, Cristiano doesn’t have the courage to turn and look at the bed. The warmth on his finger-tip is still burning too much.

After he gets ready, Cristiano realises that Lionel still hasn’t left the bedroom for the entire time that Cristiano has taken to prepare himself. Cristiano doesn’t investigate further. Lionel’s probably fallen asleep again. Or maybe doesn’t want to see Cristiano. It doesn’t matter. After calling Jose, reminding him -as if it was necessary- to be over-discrete about what he had seen the night before, and after calling the other Jose -his cleaning man- telling him not to come today, finally Cristiano gets out. 

He’s first at training, as always. He starts with an easy jogging, enjoying the crisp fresh air of the late summer sunrise. It’s going to be a warm day, Cristiano knows it from the light in the sky. But for the moment it’s still the perfect temperature for running. When he feels ready, he starts to accelerate. He tries to use the speed of his feet to blow away the images of the night before that now seem like frames of a fictional movie. 

Finally people arrive. Cristiano can hear them even before seeing them. More specifically, he can hear Sergio Ramos rambling about the Champions League. He has continued to do that for the entire summer and there is no sign of him stopping. 

“You will see, we are going to win the treble this year!”

“Ahh! Shut up,” James says, “You’re going to tempt fate. Oh, hi! Cris!” He waves and starts jogging in Cristiano’s direction, followed by Marcelo and his big smile, already shining even so early in the morning.

“You are too superstitious! We have all the right stuff this year! We have even the Ballon d’or!” Sergio says, adjusting the band on his hair.

“It’s a matter of keeping your feet on the ground,” Tony says, starting his run as well.

“You’re too serious!” Álvaro says, “I’m with Sergio.”

“Me too,” Cristiano says with a grin. Better think about the objectives with the team rather than anything else. Also, with Messi in that condition… hang on, has he just thought that?

“Cris, are you alright?” Marcelo says. Damn him and his empathy. 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry,” Cristiano says, bending down to stretch. To hide his face. He hates that. He hates hiding his emotions, keeping secrets, playing games with people. This situation can’t go on anymore, when he’s going home he needs to fix it.

“Are you sure”? James ask, bending down as well, seeking out Cristiano with his big eyes that always look over-worried.

“Yeah,” he reassures him. “How are things going with Enzo’s birthday party?” he diverts, addressing Celo.

“Ah, hard. We haven’t still decided the theme,” Marcelo replies, successfully distracted.

“Star Wars! Star Wars is always successful,” Sergio states, reaching them. 

“I don’t know, man, he’s interested in happy funny stories rather than battles.”

“Again, I vote for something funny,” Alvaro joins the group, slowly jogging.

“Like his father?” James asks.

“He’s a warrior when he needs to be,” Sergio says, balancing on one leg to stretch out.

“Are you talking about the father or the son now?” Cristiano asks teasingly. Secretly proud about having managed to switch the attention of the group from him to Celo and his party. 

Except. From time to time he can feels the gaze of Marcelo on him, and he knows that he hasn’t been completely forgotten.

It doesn’t matter. Cristiano stubbornly continues his training, avoiding being alone with any of his teammates that may want to ask more questions. 

Even at lunch, he manages to stay apart, eating his salad with his head buried in his mobile. Except, of course, Marcelo appears in front of him.

“Nice try,” he says, turning the chair and sitting in front of him. He leans over, with the elbows on the seatback, and the eyes lowered to Cristiano’s level, scrutinizing. “Talking about Enzo. It’s a bit of cheap shot, though, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Cristiano mutters, still sliding through the pages of his mobile.

Marcelo stays silent for some seconds. Some extremely long seconds in which Cristiano can feel the tension growing. He stubbornly keeps sliding, even if it’s clear to everyone now that he’s not really reading anything. A couple of seconds more, and he would have thrown the mobile away, just booking it out of the training café.

But luckily -is that luck? Or is it -again-his damn empathy?- Marcelo waits just enough to push but not to break Cristiano, and then he talks, extremely seriously. “You usually just burst out about whatever you’re thinking, even if you end up regretting it a second later.”

“Yeah?” Cristiano replies, still sliding.

“You can keep secrets sometimes. If you’re prompted about them less than two times. You can’t resist a third attempt. Too impatient.”

“Yes,” Cristiano finally looks up. “So this means there is nothing. For real,” and Cristiano cringes at the sound of his own voice. Because he’s lying. He’s lying to one of his best friends, a very good, honourable man, and he doesn’t like it a bit.

“It means that it’s really serious,” Marcelo guesses.

“Think what you want,” Cristiano replies, shrugging his shoulders. A good phrase to avoid another lie. And a good way to avoid Marcelo’s investigating eyes while drinking some water.

Marcelo patiently waits for Cristiano to drop the glass, before talking again. “What I am just saying is that I hope that I don’t have to find it out from the newspaper.”

Oh. That.

Cristiano smiles his brightest smile, and suddenly his face matches the sunny warm day. “Don’t worry. I am not going anywhere. Madrid is my house, my family. And for sure, if there are some problems in the family, the family is the first that knows. And yes, you would know, in any case. Do your laundry at home, as they say.”

The brightness doesn’t really reach Marcelo, though. He looks less worried, this is true. But now he just seems puzzled. “If it’s not that, then what-“

“I said, don’t worry,” Cristiano interrupts him, rising from the chair. He can feel the glance of Marcelo, while he brings his empty ball to the bar. As he can feel the glance of his teammates in the afternoon training.

Ok, maybe he’s being paranoid. It’s not that he’s on the top of the list of the interests of all his teammates. But clearly Cristiano isn’t good at hiding things. Nor does he like doing it. He needs to talk to Messi as soon as he’s at home and clarify their situation.

Cristiano can’t really think about what “clarify” means or what the implications are. He doesn’t necessarily want Messi to leave. He just needs to talk, find what’s going on, find a solution.

A solution that implies the establishment of some kind of relationship?

Cristiano can’t swear about that. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

He wants him.

He would be a liar to say the contrary and -again- he’s not a liar.

The point is: he doesn’t want him like that but he can’t see any other “like what” on the table.

Cristiano shakes his hair like a dog after the post-training shower. This is too much stress for the beginning of the season. He says goodbye to his teammates and drives home with a brand-new determination on his face.

Except. All his plans crumble down as soon as Cristiano crosses the doorstep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) Comments are always very appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again.
> 
> Ok, so... this is a kind of jump the shark chapter. If you follow me on this weirdness you can follow me everywhere. Incidentally: if you don't... well, you can skip this chapter. At the end of the day, it's just porn. But, again, the entire fic is defined as PWP, so...
> 
> Anyway. Sorry, not sorry XD

Lionel is standing in the hallway, barefoot, still wearing the same loose clothes that Cristiano had given him the night before. He still looks on edge but he has a determined light in his eyes. Something that Cristiano has learnt to be wary of.

“Hi,” Cristiano attempts, not sure about what to expect from Lionel.

A waving hand, half hidden in the sleeve, is the only reply that Lionel gives him, before starting to move towards Cristiano.

Again, Cristiano tries to keep things normal, as if there could ever be something normal in having Lionel Messi in his house. We need to talk, Cristiano reminds himself, while Lionel covers the distance between them with short, sound steps.

Cristiano’s helpless while Lionel approaches him. We need to talk, he keeps saying to himself. But the problem is that he has forgotten about what.

Instead, Lionel is the one that speaks. “I made you a promise this morning,” he says.

“Yeah?” Cristiano asks, trying to reconnect those two or three neurons that are still working. Attempt failed. His entire brain explodes when Lionel kneels in front of him.

“What are you doing?” Cristiano asks, stupidly. They both know what he’s doing, it’s just that -once again- Cristiano can’t really connect what his eyes see and what his brain is convinced the reality should be.

In reality, Lionel Messi would never loom in front of Cristiano Ronaldo’s groin. He would never slide his hands from Cristiano’s hips to his lower abdomen, looking as if appreciating the lines of the muscles under his fingers. He would never say “I’ve thought of it for the entire day,” gazing up at Cristiano from under his fringe. 

But what Cristiano sees are Lionel’s eyes. The same eyes that Cristiano has learnt to know very well over the years, and he can’t miss the honest, straightforward look that they have now. They have the same light as when Lionel used to talk about his passion for football and his biggest desire of winning something with his national team.

That desire that has just been broken for the second time in two years, in the worse way possible.

And now that those big eyes are directed at him, Cristiano can somehow believe that Lionel has indeed spent the entire day just thinking about sucking his cock, as absurd as it is.

That idea alone is making said cock react as if Cristiano was receiving more stimulation than Lionel’s soft touches. But he doesn’t rush it. On the contrary, he leans on the door behind him, making himself comfortable, letting Lionel lead the action. Maybe Cristiano is also tempted to test Lionel. See if he really follows what has promised.

Lionel doesn’t rush, as well. He immediately tracks Cristiano’s movement attracted to his limbs as iron with a magnet. But he takes his time, now looking at what he’s doing when his fingers work with Cristiano’s trousers’ buttons. He licks his lips, absentmindedly, or in anticipation of what he’s about to do, and Cristiano as forced back a groan in his through. 

But Cristiano can’t high a relieved sigh when finally Lionel lowers down his trousers and slips, caressing the stony muscles of Cristiano’s big thighs. And yet, he stays still, with his hands on his side, clenched into fists. Daring Lionel to do what he wants. 

But Lionel stops facing Cristiano’s cock, half hard in anticipation. He looks up at him again, suddenly insecure, with a ghost of red on his cheeks.

“I- I am not a big expert in this,” he says

Cristiano raises an eyebrow. All the implications of that sentence e flooding into his brain. Of course he's not if he hasn't had any other experience with men. And it shouldn't be like that, he shouldn't do like that he shouldn't- 

“But I’ve practised the entire day. For you,” Lionel is quick to add, and all the thoughts in Cristiano’s brain drop down, as his blood, all diverted into another part of Cristiano’s body.

“Yeah?” he asks, unable for a moment to articulate any sentence, killed by that simple “for you”.

“With my fingers,” Lionel explains.

Cristiano gulps at the image of Lionel sitting alone in his bed, sucking his own fingers, pushing them deeper and deeper, thinking about the moment when Cristiano would come back.

Enough. 

No more daydreams or this will end even before it starts.

No more daydreams when Cristiano can enjoy the reality.

Cristiano tenderly caresses Lionel’s cheek, patronising. “Let me see what you’ve learnt, then,” he says. “I will take account of the efforts.”

"Thank you, Cristiano," Lionel says with his sweet tone and Cristiano, just for a moment, is hit by the absurdity of Lionel Messi thanking him for the promise of being not too harsh in judging the blow-job that Lionel is about to give him.

But then Cristiano’s brain goes blank when he feels Lionel nuzzling his groin. He looks like a curious puppy and, like a puppy, he starts lapping his balls, with little small hits, as if to familiarise himself with the taste. It doesn’t take long, then, for Lionel to actually, properly begin licking him: each touch leaving a hot, humid strip of pleasure. 

Lionel moves back, licking the base of Cristiano’s cock, and then goes up, slowly dedicating his attention to the entire length. When he finally reaches the head, he leaves a little kiss, almost in devotion.

“It’s not too bad, for a start,” Cristiano manages to say.

“I haven’t started, yet,” Lionel smiles, and moves his right hand from Cristiano’s hip to the base of his cock, enclosing it in his palm. And then he licks his lips one last time before covering the top of Cristiano’s cock with his mouth.

Cristiano sighs in relief at the feeling of that welcoming, hot humidity. It’s almost comforting now. Cristiano feels like his cock belongs to that. As its natural place on Earth is Lionel Messi’s mouth, and fuck what his brain thinks the reality should be.

Said brain is completely shut down when Lionel starts to move his tongue again, this time dedicating its attention to the glands. Lionel’s hand is moving as well on the base, with a slow rhythm, while he still looks up to Cristiano's, seeking approval.

And then Lionel stops, all of a sudden. Cristiano grunts in disapproval when the cold air hits his cock, but the complaint that’s already on the tip of his tongue is swallowed back, in front of the glance that Lionel gives him, full of uncertainty.

“Is it good?” he asks with a small voice.

“Yes, very good,” Cristiano confirms, caressing his hair.

Lionel smiles like a baby to a proud mum when presenting his first report card.

"But, you know, I am so inexperienced, I need your guidance. I need you to tell me what to do and correct me if I am wrong," he then adds and he manages to make the most innocent sweet eyes like a dame of the 19th century talking about needlework, rather than a good blow-job. 

Cristiano almost laughs at that, risking ruining everything. He clears his throat to compose himself and plays with some of Lionel’s locks.

“You were doing good,” he confirms. “But I don’t like interruptions. My poor cock is getting cold now.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Leo immediately looks mortified, and he’s quick to bend down and cover the top of Cristiano’s cock with his soft lips. He adds a few licks, as if to smooth down an apology. 

Cristiano almost swears at that, pulling a little on Lionel’s hair. But he manages again to keep steady, and he adds in the coolest voice that he’s able to produce, given the situation, “Good boy. I am sure you will manage to communicate with me with your puppy eyes, won't you? Or hit me if you are uncomfortable, right?” Cristiano’s hand is still cupping Lionel’s head, keeping him in place, and he can feel his silky hair moving under his fingers as Lionel nods.

“Very good,” he praises. “You were actually doing very well before interrupting,” Cristiano prompts.

Lionel nods again before beginning to work on that. 

It’s… well, not perfect. Lionel can’t really work out how to move the hand and the mouth at the same time, for a start. But the enthusiasm that he's applying on his task is making up for it. It's almost heart-breaking. It's like a dream that Cristiano has never even dared to make, forget wish. Lionel Messi kneeling in front of him trying his best to please him by sucking his cock, looking at him for approval. Cristiano can’t help to moan at that vision, maybe even more pleasant than Lionel’s attempt to suck. 

And Lionel’s trying to communicate how pleased he is about Cristiano’s appreciations, and how much he seems to actually enjoy it. It's like he’s sucking the most luxurious ice cream. That moan, that delicious sound vibrates directly into Cristiano’s erection. 

And that leads Cristiano to want more. He wants to fuck Lionel properly, wants to make him his, have him entirely under his control. 

Calm down. Cristiano takes a deep breath. He needs to go smoothly: he can’t force himself into Lionel, especially as Lionel had said that this is his first time.

“Now tell me,” he prompts with another caress at the back of his head, gaining a questioning look from Lionel. “Can you manage to swallow all of me, little flea?” he asks.

Lionel immediately stops and stays still, looking up with big eyes. He probably hasn’t expected that question, and with reason. It’s really a lot to ask to someone who’s so inexperienced. 

And as long as Cristiano feels horny -and, really, it’s all Lionel’s fault- he can’t push him that far if Lionel doesn’t feel like it.

Cristiano is about to make up for his own disappointment and at same time think about how to reassure Lionel that is perfectly fine to simply keep doing what he is already doing.

Except. 

Lionel is still looking up at him, when he starts moving, slowly but resolute, until he manages to slide the entire length of Cristiano's cock into his mouth.

Cristiano cannot help but muttering a swear under his breath. This is too good to be real. He hits the wall with his fist, trying to stay still just for another moment, trying to just enjoy Lionel’s initiative and let him get used to the feeling. It's only few moments before Lionel starts to bob his head.

Still staring at him.

As if Lionel were still looking for Cristiano’s approval.

And that’s it. Lionel has just managed to hit Cristiano’s breaking point.

"Just keep your mouth open," Cristiano orders, and this time he doesn't wait for a reply from Lionel. He simply can't wait anymore.

All his barriers, all his self-control is gone, and now the only thing that Cristiano can do is cup Lionel's head with both his hands and start to properly fuck his mouth.

Lionel moans what could be surprise, or maybe in protest. But Lionel doesn’t hit Cristiano, as he has been prompted to do in case of discomfort.

Nor does he push Cristiano away.

What Lionel does is slide his hands to Cristiano back, and clench on his body to brace himself.

Cristiano can feel Lionel’s nails digging into his flesh, can hear the small noises that he makes every time Cristiano moves, can see the tears that are forming in the corner of his eyes, still, always, looking up to him. 

Cristiano is aware of the discomfort that he’s giving, but he’s even more aware of Lionel’s courage and his determination, almost stubbornness to please Cristiano. And this is what is driving Cristiano crazy and making him fuck him in all bluntness.

He’s so out of control that doesn’t even manage to ask permission: when Cristiano reaches the climax he just holds Lionel’s head against himself, and release his cum directly in his throat, shouting out his pleasure.

And then the world seems suddenly very still. Cristiano closes his eyes, curving his neck up. He can hear himself panting. The air is very cold over his skin: he must have sweated. The wall where Cristian has leant is even colder on his back. There is only one point of warmness, and it is boiling hot. It’s where Lionel mouth still is still working on him, gently nuzzling Cristiano’s softening cock with his tongue.

Cristiano looks down at him. Lionel appears a bit tested: his fringe is now half hiding his closed eyes, and he’s leaning on Cristiano’s legs. 

Cristiano cuddles Lionel’s hair, amazed. He still can’t believe that he has managed to swallow him. Lionel has been so incredibly dedicated. 

“You’ve been so good,” Cristiano praises loudly. “So fucking good.”The approval seems to have the desired effect, judging from the cheerful look on Lionel’s face. 

Cristiano smiles, pushing Lionel away. A shiver runs through his body, already missing the cosy, humid warmness of Lionel’s mouth.

The contact with Lionel is now only granted by Cristiano’s hands, still framing his cheeks while he slides against the wall, kneeling down, worn out by the activity and by the peak of pleasure. 

Adrenaline is still pumping in Cristiano’s brain: recollecting sensible thoughts is hard, but it’s time to think about Lionel. 

Cristiano studies him carefully, brushing his thumbs on his cheekbones. Maybe it’s just his imagination, but Lionel looks a bit paler under Cristiano's attentive gaze. Worn out, for sure. And his lips are so red and plump from the exertion. It’s hard not to stare at those lips, not after what they have just done to him.

“Are you, ok, Lionel?” Cristiano asks, sincerely concerned.

Lionel nods with a small gesture and Cristiano smiles at that, now openly caressing his face. He feels happy, satisfied. He knows that he shouldn’t have done what he’s done, but Lionel has just been so good. And cute. He’s really tried his best.

That is until there is a shift in Lionel's mood. He seems unsettled, changing position, moving on the floor. In the movement he's also separated himself from Cristiano's touch, sitting on his own feet.

“What’s wrong?” Cristiano asks, frowning.

“Nothing,” he says, but he’s clearly in trouble. 

Cristiano’s eyes widen when he realises that what Lionel is doing is rocking his body, taking advantage of his crouched position to rub his groin against his own feet,

“Don’t lie to me. What are you doing, Lionel?" Cristiano asks, the tone of his voice being a mixture of inquisition and amusement. 

Lionel freezes. “I…” he blushes, unable to find the words. “You’ve been so good to me, Cristiano.” 

“Yes,” Cristiano states, uncertain about where Lionel’s words are leading.

“You gave me all of yourself. And it was better than I dreamed. So much better,” Lionel continues, now finding bravery in his own words. 

“Yes, I gave you everything, and you…” Cristiano prompts, without knowing exactly where Lionel wants to go. But that tone of Lionel’s voice is familiar to Cristiano by now. He knows what it means. Well, it’s true that Cristiano has had his satisfaction. That was pretty damn good blowjob, especially for being Lionel’s first one, if he is being honest. He was seriously surprised about the deep-throat part. He has already witnessed Lionel’s ability on the pitch to withstand discomfort, but he has never thought about the possibility of applying this skill in… other fields, so to speak.

But the point here is: Cristiano is satisfied because of what Lionel did, and Lionel clearly is not. It would be only fair for Cristiano to work for Lionel’s pleasure. And he knows very well now what Lionel likes, so he should act accordingly. That’s what Cristiano is saying to himself. The fact that he can fell the thrill about the possibilities in front of him, and even his satisfied cock is tingling at the ideas in his mind, is completely irrelevant. 

“And I failed you,” Lionel ends the sentence. “That should be enough for me to...” he waves a hand in front of himself, trying to be exhaustive with the simple implication.

But that's not enough for Cristiano if they want to play this game. "Keep talking flea. Since you failed me I want you at least to have the balls to admit your failure aloud." And maybe that would also help Cristiano to get Lionel’s point.

Lionel gulps, as if looking for the right words. “I should have come sucking you,” he eventually confesses, and this time Cristiano’s cock is definitely feeling attentive.

“Indeed, you should,” Cristiano follows. “You liked it so much, didn’t you?”

Lionel is obviously appreciating where this is leading, judging by the way in which he’s applying more pressure on his groin.

"Yes," he confirms. "It was so much better than I imagined. My head was exploding. I couldn't do anything. Think anything. There was only you: your hands on me, you controlling me, you filling me…"

“You liked that part, didn’t you? Tell me how good it was eating me. Tell me how my come tasted,” Cristiano says with a smirk, already completely taken in their façade. 

Lionel freezes and returns a guilty sight to Cristiano. “I… I don’t know,” he says, now openly blushing. “It was too quick and I-

“Too quick?!” Cristiano asks in disbelief.

“I mean, when you came I was,” he made a vague gesture in front of himself, but Cristiano knows exactly what he means, and he’s right. He came directly in his throat, there was no chance that Lionel could have tasted it. But it doesn’t matter right now. That’s not the point that Lionel wants to make. And what he wants becomes only clearer with the next apology.

“I’m so sorry, Cristiano. I failed you,” he says, mortified. He’s even stopped moving, all his attention dedicated to Cristiano, now.

“Yes, you did. And you are doing it again even now.” Cristiano states with hard voice.

Lionel looks at him with big eyes: mortification is now added to confusion: it’s obvious that Lionel has not a clue about what he’s currently doing wrong, and he’s not pleased by that, at all.  
“I told you I didn’t want you to be vague, and here you’re doing it again,” Cristiano explains.

Lionel takes a few seconds to realise what Cristiano is referring to, and then bites his lips, hiding his hands under his legs, to be sure of not falling again into the temptation of gesturing instead of talking.

“I am so sorry,” he repeats. “I… I deserve to be punished,” he adds, almost murmuring it.

Cristiano blinks. Ok, Lionel is escalating things now, and Cristiano is not sure he wants to follow him on that path. For sure, he’s not going to beat Lionel. That’s not him. But, on the other hand, Cristiano doesn’t want to make Lionel feel inadequate or wrong for his desires. He’s obviously troubled enough: judgment is the last thing that Lionel needs right now.

Cristiano smirks when he thinks he’s found the right solution. And it would be weird, maybe, but he’s already so excited at the idea that he thinks he could be ready for another round soon.

“Let me decide what I am going to do,” he first says, stating clearly their reciprocal roles. 

Lionel nods, eager to follow Cristiano’s lead and gaining an approving smile from the other.

“First of all, I need you to show me your failure. Show me how much you are almost ready to come, and yet you didn’t when you should.”

Lionel nods again before rising on his knees, putting on a show for Cristiano. He strips away all his clothes, starting from the long sleeve t-shirt.

Cristiano's mouth waters at the vision. He's still amazed about what a such a nice body Messi was hiding behind the baggy clothes that he usually wears. And now Cristiano's the one that would like to suck, tasting those hard, little nipples between his lips. But when Lionel drops down his trousers and underwear he reveals an angry, unsatisfied erection that lures all Cristiano’s attention.

“So, sucking me was not enough for you,” Cristiano comments, unimpressed.

“I know. I… I am such a failure,” Lionel adds, almost murmuring it. He sounds sad, and suddenly a set of layers looms in that sentence, not necessarily linked to the here and now.

Cristiano blinks. No, this is not right. Cristiano may find all that situation intoxicatingly irresistible, but he doesn’t like a bit when Lionel indulges too much in self-disrepute. One thing is playing a sexy game, another completely different issue is real life.

Sex. 

Sex is good and if it doesn’t solve all of the problems at least it can bring a boost of euphoria. This seems the only solution that Cristiano can think now to erase Lionel’s current sulking. Admittedly, Cristiano can’t really think straight now. Not with Lionel's naked body within reach.

And so Cristiano eventually grabs Lionel from the shoulders to maneuver him. “Oh, no, little flea,” he reassures him. “For a start, you have been a good swallower. I have to give you credit for that.”

There is no resistance to Cristiano’s pushes and soon Lionel lays down on his back while Cristiano is looming over him. His body only shivers with the contact with the cold floor. Or, maybe, in anticipation of what’s going on.

“In fact,” Cristiano says, while his hands meander on Lionel's body, drinking the feeling of his muscles under his fingers, "what I am going to do is take care of you… and of it," he says, touching Lionel's glans only with the point of his index.

Lionel stares at him with big eyes, his body completely loose, with his arm laying on the side of his head. “I don’t- I don’t deserve it,” he tries to protest, with a faint little voice.

“As I said, I’m the one judging here,” Cristiano says, raising up into a standing position. Only then he realises that he still has his lowered trousers and underwear on his ankles. He quickly kicks them away. Finally, Cristiano straddles Lionel, getting rid of his t-shirt. He towers above him from a standing position.

“Not only I’m going to touch you until you come, Lionel. But I’ll use the best part of me,” he smirks, as he extends an arm to support himself with the wall.

Lionel’s torso lifts up and down, deeper as he breathes, while Cristiano raises his right foot and slides it over the lower part of Lionel’s abdomen. And lower. And lower.

Cristiano plays only for few seconds with Lionel’s erection, before going down, reaching his balls. And then, again down. He only stops when he reaches that little spot, between the crotch and the ass. 

Lionel hisses when Cristiano starts to insistently touch him on that point, taking also an advantage of his ankle to stimulate Lionel's groin from the back.

“You like me playing with your balls, don’t you?”

Lionel shifts, at the touch. “Yes, Cristiano,” he says before releasing a moan as Cristiano sets a rhythm.

Reality stretches as Cristiano drinks from the vision of Lionel’s torso moving broader as he takes deeper pants. His cock, already excited, is now leaking pre-cum and Cristiano shows his appreciation for the view, applying more pressure on Lionel’s groin. He’s rewarded by the most delicious moan.

“I am pretty good with my feet, am I?” 

“Yes,” Lionel pants.

“Better than you, right?” Cristiano coaxes.

“Yes," Lionel mutters with closed eyes and Cristiano can't help but smile broadly at his success. It's probably the heat of the moment, but still, listening to Lionel Messi admitting such a thing is so big for Cristiano.

But then there is a movement that captures Cristiano's attention. Lionel is lost in a repetition of ‘yes’es but his hand his moving steadily to his lower parts.

“Ah-ah!” he stops him. “Surely I’m so good that my foot’s touch is enough for you to come, isn’t it?” Cristiano prompts.

Lionel groans, squinting his eyes closed. But he moves his hand away and he ends up pressing his fists close to his face, palms up.

Cristiano smirks in approval, licking his lips. He keeps moving, up and down, with a slow but steady rhythm. And his smile widens when he sees Lionel starting to move, as well. Up and down. Up and down. Following the rhythm dictated by Cristiano, seeking more and more pressure. 

Lionel’s eyes are still closed and there is a line on his forehead now. He looks so focused, so dedicated that you couldn’t believe that all his efforts are actually to try and find his way to have an orgasm fucking Cristiano's foot. He's pale for the exertion. A veil of sweat, on his skin, is making him almost diaphanous. The only spots of colour are his tattoos and his cock, where all the blood was flowing into.

Lionel Messi really has such a beautiful body, Cristiano catches himself thinking, for the nth time in these days. And his dedication to following Cristiano's orders, despite his evident need for touching himself, is just making him more irresistible.

Cristiano reaches for his own cock and starts to jerk off almost absentmindedly, all his attention driven by the show that Lionel is giving under him.

“Come on, Lionel, I know you can do it,” Cristiano prompts.

Lionel moans again in frustration, shaking his head, his fists attached to the floor as if he were tied to it, his tattoo darting like a living snake for the contraction of his muscles.

Cristiano is happy that he has already come one time because, otherwise, he would have completely lost his control in front of that. Right now, he can simply enjoy the sight of Lionel moving. He’s so desperately brushing his groin over and over on Cristiano’s foot that Cristiano only needs to stay still.

And if Cristiano’s breath is only slightly accelerated for the vision and the work that his own hand is doing, Lionel is openly, loudly panting right now. There’s even a faint of hiss in his breathing. The tendons on his neck are on display from the struggle. The effort that Lionel’s putting in is obvious and Cristiano starts to wonder if Lionel can really do it, or if he needs a hand, eventually.

But Cristiano doesn’t surrender yet. “Come on, little flea, come on,” he keeps encouraging him. The more he talks, the more Lionel moves, the more desperate are his moans, and the more Cristiano himself moves, increasing the speed of his hand.

Lionel finally comes. He does it with a desperate shout, arching his entire back, spilling more on himself than on Cristiano’s leg. And then he falls down on the floor like a dead body, all his energy gone. His arms are still bent next to his face, but the fingers are now relaxed, only half closed as all the strength that he might have had has deserted his body.

He looks so broken. Cristiano would have really thought that Lionel’s fainted if it weren’t for his deep, noisy pants.

The problem is that now Cristiano is too turned on to stop. He falls on his knees, still straddling Lionel, and works his cock with snapping sounds.

After a few seconds, Lionel opens his eyes, and reaches out to Cristiano, brushing his thighs, as if checking that Cristiano is there for real. He looks like he's in a trance.

“Fuck, Lionel, you’re so beautiful,” Cristiano grunts. 

Lionel doesn’t reply. He looks out of it. Maybe he’s still dizzy from the exertion, but he looks like he’s having a vision. All his attention is driven to Cristiano. To Cristiano’s cock, to be more precise, which is looming only a few centimetres from him. He’s not even blinking.

"Lionel," Cristiano calls, as testing that he's still with him. But he can't have the patience to wait for a sign from Lionel. Not right now. So, he grabs Lionel's hair pushing his head up, forcing him to look at him while he talks to him.

“I want your mouth again, Lionel. Can you take me another time?”

“Yes,” Lionel promptly replies. The sound is low, but the tone is eager. So eager.

Cristiano’s hand strengthens his grip on Lionel, curving further up his neck. And Lionel is pliant to follow, opening his mouth wide.

“Perfect,” Cristiano approves, accelerating the pumping with his other hand.

“I don’t want to fuck you, flea,” Cristiano instructs. “I just want to fill you. I just want you to eat-" Cristiano rambles, his voice broken by his owns pants. It doesn’t really matter what he says, because he’s well aware that Lionel is ready to take whatever Cristiano is willing to give him.

But Cristiano can’t think straight. He’s so fucking close, he realises, clenching on Lionel’s hair. And a second orgasm, so close to the other, is almost painful. Less explosive. More totalising. Cristiano can feel it mounting from his entire body.

It’s also easier to control, though. And Cristiano manages to squeeze his foreskin, blocking his shot.

It’s just for a second. It’s just for the time of guiding his cock above Lionel’s open, welcoming lips and letting it gently spill into his mouth.

That is, until Lionel’s tongue peers up and starts to lap the head of Cristiano’s cock.

Cristiano mutters something unintelligible as he gives up on Lionel’s attention. He eventually releases the grasp that he still has on his own staff and cups Lionel’s head with both his hands, now with a gentler touch.

Lionel, in turns, emits the most delicious moan as he sucks away the tail of Cristiano’s orgasm. He keeps doing it until Cristiano’s cock softens in his mouth, and when Cristiano pulls backwards, Lionel slides his tongue through his length for the last time. 

And after this, the only thing that Cristiano manages to do is collapse on Lionel, resting his head on Lionel's shoulder. He may have dozed off. It's like a dream. A fantastic dream filled by Lionel's smell, and Cristiano has never experienced such a joyful peace in his life.

“It’s weird. Sweet and a bit salty at the same time.” Lionel’s voice seems to come from a dream, as well. But this dream doesn’t make any sense to Cristiano right now.

Coming back from reality is like recomposing a puzzle. Rebuilding a glass that has been shattered. Breathe. One step at a time.

Breathe.

Air in.

Air out.

Cristiano licks his lips and swallows, trying to regularise his breathing. He rises on his elbow looking down at the man below him. Lionel is looking up, his expression a mixture of offering and of seeking approval.

"It's like… a melted jelly? But with a pinch of salt," Lionel attempts, and he seems so convinced that this is what Cristiano wants from him. Said Cristiano, instead, is completely at loss. Until something clicks in his brain, and he remembers what he said like what feels like one life ago.

Cristiano is impressed, he can’t deny it. Lionel has remembered, even after all they’ve done after, that Cristiano has once upon a time asked him to talk about the taste of his come. 

“But I like it,” Lionel is quick to add, misreading the change in Cristiano’s expression as a disapproval.

“I am sure you do,” Cristiano chuckles. “You’re such a good boy,” he says, ruffling his hair. And it’s weird, really, because Lionel is not a boy as much as Cristiano isn’t. Only a couple of years separate them. But, indeed, there are moments when Lionel looks more like a boy. Especially now, that he's smiling satisfied because of Cristiano’s approval. All the traces of sadness are gone.

And Cristiano can drink from this image forever. He still doesn’t know what has brought Lionel here, or why he’s so eager to be nothing less than the perfect dream for Cristiano, but right now Cristiano surrenders to the fact that he doesn’t care. He should, but he doesn’t. There will be time for explanation, he’s sure of that. But he’s also sure that as long as he can have Lionel smiling at him like this, he can’t, he simply can’t push this to an end.

Cristiano shakes his head, trying to scatter away unwanted thoughts. Now it's not a time for deciding what he wants and he should want. Now it’s time to recover and to have a proper shower. 

It’s only a little brush. When Cristiano moves away from Lionel, with his brain still overthinking about desires and responsibilities, that light touch on Cristiano’s arm is the only sign of Lionel's presence. Of his attempt to hold Cristiano.

But it's enough, it doesn't pass unnoticed. Cristiano turns back his attention to Lionel, and now his brain is filled by a completely different urge. Because Lionel stays very still, with his hand closed into a fist, as regretting the touch. And he looks very troubled.

And Cristiano’s brain is filled with the images of the night before. How Lionel was broken, when he left him alone. Cristiano immediately feels sick. He can be thick but once that he recognises his mistakes he's not particularly willing to make them again. Especially with Lionel.

“We need a shower,” Cristiano says, stressing the pronoun. He combs Lionel’s hair, in a much sweeter gesture than the one that he did just some minutes ago. This time, Cristiano can appreciate its softness, even now that it's damp.

Lionel sighs at the touch, closing his eyes to fully live the moment. It's just a flash before he looks back to Cristiano and nods.

Cristiano is the first to stand up, and he offers a hand to Lionel.

He’s unsteady, Cristiano realises when Lionel stands up. A bit trembling. It’s obvious that the effort of their previous activities has left a mark on him. Again, Cristiano has to shake his head to avoid his brain focusing back on the image of Lionel arching his back, desperately looking to come from the touch of Cristiano’s foot.

Better focus on the shower, if Cristiano doesn’t want to call for unwanted reactions from his lower parts.

Cristiano grabs Lionel’s hand, leading him to the bathroom. The clothes remain where they are: Cristiano makes a mental point to take care of them later.

In the silence of the big house, the only audible sounds are the soft thumps of the bare feet on the wooden floor. None of them seems inclined to break the silence, but Cristiano keeps brushing his thumb on Lionel's palm, soothing. It’s important that he feels cared for. Cristiano doesn’t really know where this knowledge is coming from, but he instinctively knows that this is right now the most important thing for Lionel.

When entering the bathroom Cristiano can't help but peer in the mirror, while they pass through. He knows that he will never move on from the memory of them in front of the mirror. But now Cristiano has other plans in his head.

The big shower stall is inviting, with its opened glassy doors. When Cristiano reaches it, he just turns the hot water, keeping it simple, without any massage or spray effect that are an option with the shower. 

Cristiano's muscles feel sore for the training and… well, the after training. And apparently, the activity has left an effect on Lionel as well, judging from the tired look that he currently wears. Hence, Cristiano decides to regulate the water to a significantly hot temperature, before showing Lionel inside.

Cristiano grabs a sponge and a shower gel, but when he turns to Lionel he realises that he simply has stayed still, under the water, on hold. Again, he looks very young, with the water pressing down his hair, dripping down to his small, pale body. Cristiano ponders his actions, squeezing the sponge on his hand. Maybe washing him is a bit ridiculous. Maybe a bit too mushy? But Lionel doesn't seem to have any intention to move. Cristiano is sure that he will, if prompted, but right now he can't see any reason why he should do it. In fact, there is no reason why not to indulge in some extra-care on Lionel. Cristiano can’t deny that he actually likes the idea, even. So he ends up closing the distance between them and starts to wash him.

Lionel makes a delicious little smile, closing his eyes, abandoning all of himself to Cristiano’s care. There is nothing sexual in Cristiano’s touch, soothing Lionel’s tense muscles. But that doesn't mean that it's even a bit less overwhelming than what they've done before. In a sense, it's all the same. It's all about taking care of Lionel, in a way or the other.

Lionel’s trembling beneath his touch now, perhaps just as overcome as Cristiano is.

The realization that they’ve never kissed hits Cristiano. This would be a nice moment to do it A nice, chaste kiss, only to show Lionel that he does care about him. But Cristiano is not sure that he would be able to maintain things on an innocent level, and so he decides to fight back his desire.

It’s only when Lionel starts swaying that Cristiano realizes that something is wrong.

Cristiano tosses the sponge apart, framing Lionel's face, brushing his hair back and, at the same time, curving his head up, to study him better, to look at him in the eyes.

“Lionel?” he prompts. “Are you ok?”

Lionel’s head nods, but his body language is saying the opposite. He’s trembling. Even more than when he got up. And even in the dim light of the shower, Cristiano can see that he’s too red and too pale. Too red where the splashes are landing, too pale on the rest of the body. His face, in particular, seems like has had all the blood drained away. 

"Lionel!" he urges again, grabbing him by the shoulders. 

He's getting worse in any second coming, Cristiano realises on the edge of panic. Under the pounding of water, he can clearly hear the erratic sound of Lionel's breath. He is hyperventilating.

“I am sorry,” Lionel says with a very little voice. Cristiano barely hears him, because now he knows what’s going on. It’s the water. It’s too damn hot in here. Grabbing Lionel in his arm, Cristiano reaches for the water knob.

And then he realises with horror that Lionel's grip on him is loosening. He's about to faint.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I could have set this fanfiction in the present days, after the World Cup, couldn't I? Oh, no, I couldn't because Cristiano has decided to leave and go to horrible Juventus. Damn. I want to pretend that this summer has never existed.  
> Anyway, World Cup distracted me, but I am back. I hope you enjoy. If you want, let me know what you think :)
> 
> Please keep an eye to the warning tags as I am updating them chapter by chapter!

Cristiano knows what to do. After a second of panic, the long AID training that he has had—like all the professional footballers—kicks in his brain, and he acts without thinking, only repeating well-learnt routines.

 

Messi is half conscious, but somehow manages to support himself against Cristiano’s body, so, fortunately, there is no need to lift him bridal style. But Cristiano has to be extra careful not to slip on the wet floor.

 

It’s better not to tempt the fate too much, Cristiano thinks, as he decides to lay Messi directly on the floor, just outside of the shower cabin. Maybe it’s cold and gives Messi some discomfort but, at least it’s safe. He grabs a stool and puts it under Lionel’s feet, letting the blood flow back toward his head. 

 

“Lionel?” Cristiano scrambles to check on him. He pushes Lionel’s hair back, studying his face. He’s still too pale, with chapped lips and closed eyes. Cristiano can’t say how much of Lionel is present in the world.

 

“Nnnn…”

 

Cristiano is undecided if that counts as a reply. He rises up looking for something that can help. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for, but it’s clear when he spots the towel. He grabs it and washes it with cold water on the sink. The glass with the toothbrushes is there and this gives Cristiano a further idea. He quickly removes the toothbrushes and washes it before filling it with water. It’s not the best water in the world, but it’s drinkable and now is not the time to be picky.

 

When Cristiano squats down again Lionel removes the arm that was hiding his eyes. 

 

Still awake, able to move, all good signs.

 

Cristiano wipes the towel over his face, hoping that it’s giving him some relief. “Lionel?” he asks again.

 

“Nnnnn…” 

 

Ok, at least now Cristiano is almost sure that the sound is a response to his call. It means that Lionel is able to hear him, at least.

 

“Can you speak to me?” Cristiano asks.

 

“Yeah… I’m sorry, I…,” Lionel frets, trying to lift himself up, but Cristiano is quick to react and pushes him back.

 

“Take it easy, champion. It’s not time to try to get up yet. Don’t want to have to catch you again. Not on this slippery floor, at least. Or is this all a secret super, complex plan to break my ankles?”

 

Lionel groans, but he lets Cristiano manoeuvre him back onto the floor. And he allows Cristiano to keep dabbing his face with the wet towel.

 

It’s not long before Lionel starts reacquiring some colour on his cheeks. Cristiano can breathe normally now that the emergency seems to have passed. He can clearly hear both of them breathing quietly now, and the sound almost echoing in the silence of the big room. 

 

It’s a weird, nice moment. 

 

Cristiano’s touches now seem more like caresses than anything else. He crouches in a more comfortable position, sitting on his thighs. 

 

It’s like this is for real. It’s not that they’re playing some sort of game, or that Cristiano is pretending to know what to do to cure some wounds of Lionel’s soul—whose nature Cristiano has no idea of. 

 

There has been a real (albeit minor) health issue and Cristiano can handle it because he knows what to do. But even in the real world, handling Lionel Messi and taking care of him has ended on a sweet note.

 

A mixture of feelings—mostly guilt and possessiveness—arise in Cristiano when he notices the clear marks of his fingers on Lionel hips, where Cristiano had grabbed him the day before. 

 

Fuck.

 

Cristiano Ronaldo is completely fucked, it’s official. Realising that, panicking, and running away leaving a semi-unconscious Lionel Messi on his bathroom floor is a concrete possibility. Cristiano shakes his head, spreading little drops of water around. He needs to focus back on the current situation.

 

“Are you feeling better?” Cristiano asks.

 

“Yes,” Lionel replies and the sound is much stronger now. He also opens his eyes, fixing his gaze on Cristiano.

 

He can’t understand why, but Cristiano finds himself looking away from the gaze, fixing it on his own hands on Lionel’s chest.

 

“Good,” he says. “Do you think you can rise the little bit that’s necessary to try and drink some water?”

 

“Nnn,” Lionel grumbles, lifting himself up on his elbows. Cris’ arm is immediately there, surrounding him and helping him up.

 

“I wanted to before and you didn’t allow me,” Lionel complains. His voice is so slurry that Cristiano faces difficulties in understanding Spanish again after such a long time.

 

“It was too soon,” Cristiano states, as a matter of fact, passing the glass to Lionel. “Now try to drink this for me. Slowly.”

 

While Lionel drinks his water, Cristiano realizes his body temperature is far from what it should be.

 

“You’re cold,” Cristiano says, pulling him closer to his own body, hoping to share his body heat.

 

Lionel immediately adjusts to the new position. The glass is forgotten on the floor, and he curls up further into Cristiano. “You’re warm,” he says, and now the blurriness of his voice has a sleepy note. 

 

“Yeah,” Cristiano smiles, “but we should try to make you warm too,” he says, kissing the top of Lionel’s head and grabbing a nearby towel to wrap him.

 

After briefly rubbing him down, Cristiano attempts to try and put Lionel on his feet, once he verifies that his colour is looking more normal.

 

When they’re back in the bedroom Cristiano throws Lionel the necessary to get dressed for the night: some underwear and another spare t-shirt of Cristiano’s.

 

“I am going to grab something sugary from the kitchen,” Cristiano says as he gets dressed, as well. “Please, don’t freak out while I’m gone.”

 

“I’m not going to,” Lionel smiles, positioning himself with his back against the headboard. It might be Cristiano’s imagination, but Lionel’s smile seems to have a hint of amusement

 

“And don’t fall asleep,” Cristiano adds, after taking note of how frequently Lionel is blinking.

 

“I will not,” Lionel says with a light laugh and this helps relieve Cristiano’s doubts about his health. Lionel is probably thinking Cristiano is acting like a mama bear, but the reality is that seeing Lionel almost faint has indeed touched Cristiano.

 

Cristiano dismisses, him shaking his head and descends to the kitchen, where he finds something wrong. Find is not the right word. In fact, everything looks exactly the same as it has always looked. 

 

Cristiano’s eyes wander around the modern, lucid furniture and finally spots the sink, where a single bowl sits, already dry. It’s his bowl, the one he used for his morning cereal. Nothing else is there.

 

The frown lines on Cristiano’s forehead deepen. He goes to the dishwasher, opening it to find it empty.

 

A glance at the fruit basket is enough to get that it also has been untouched. 

 

Cristiano opens some random cupboards just to check, but he already has the answer to his question. Apparently, Lionel hasn’t eaten anything the entire day. That, for sure, is a good reason for his sickness.

 

Cristiano curses under his breath. Why hasn’t Lionel eaten? Was it because he felt too awkward to help himself, even though Cristiano told him to do so? Is it something more? Some kind of problem with food? 

 

Lionel is so full of shit these days that Cristiano wouldn’t be surprised if this is part of it. The problem is that Cristiano is not willing to withstand that, as well, so the flea had better eat some fruit and cereal or Cristiano is going to stuff them down his throat with his own two hands. That’s what Cristiano thinks while he prepares a tray of food for Lionel and himself -he hasn’t eaten yet either, as his grumbling stomach likes to remind him.

 

Cristiano confronts Lionel once the tray has been securely placed on Lionel’s lap and he sits on the bed in front of him.

 

“Eat,” Cristiano commands, grabbing one of the bowl of cereals for himself.

 

He’s pleased to see that Lionel obeys without any opposition. Is that because he doesn’t have any eating disorders, or because he’s back in the mood of obeying whatever Cristiano prompts him to do? Cristiano doesn’t know. It doesn’t even matter though. Lionel is feeding himself and that’s the important thing, for the moment.

 

Truthfully, Lionel also seems to properly chew and swallow and is not just playing with food as opposed to pretending to eat without really doing it. Cristiano may not know so much about eating disorders, but he judges this as a good sign.

 

“So,” Cristiano says, “why haven’t you eaten anything today?”

 

Lionel shrugs, driving the spoon into his mouth. Only when he realises the prolonged silence does he look up to Cristiano.

 

“I am still waiting for a reply to my question,” Cristiano says.

 

“I don’t…” Lionel gulps, words deserting him, but Cristiano is still there, his eyes fixed on him. “I’ve simply not been hungry,” he finally improvises.

 

“For an entire day?” Cristiano asks, in disbelief. “Have you drunk anything, at least?”

 

Lionel shakes his head, looking helpless.

 

“With your stones issues?” Cristiano bursts out.

 

Lionel’s eyebrows raise up in surprise. Well, it’s not that Cristiano is updated on the medical conditions of Lionel Messi, nor that he wants to be. But he reads newspapers and everybody is aware of some of the issues that he’s faced. There was that period when he was vomiting everywhere, and that was kind of disgusting, really. And yes, Cristiano remembers the time when Lionel had to stop playing because of kidney stones. He’s sure that Lionel, himself, knows something about Cristiano’s issues—medical or not—that were shouted on the newspapers. Or maybe not. Lionel’s always looked to Cristiano as if he lives in his own little world.

 

Anyway, the important thing here is that Lionel’s eyes are now all focused on him and that the spoon is forgotten in his lap.

 

“I said, eat,” Cristiano says again, and from his tone of voice, you can tell that the shit that Cristiano gives is vanishing quickly. He grabs the bottle of water on the bedside table and pours some water in a glass that he then sticks in Lionel’s hand. “And drink, for God’s sake.”

 

Cristiano breathes in and out, letting his rage sink into the water that Lionel promptly gulps down.

 

“Seriously, why haven’t you eaten? Did you feel awkward? I told you that you could have helped yourself. Did you think I would have minded about you wandering into my house?”

 

Lionel shakes his head keeping his eyes fixed on the food on his lap. “I really didn’t feel like eating. That’s all.”

 

That’s all. 

 

Cristiano munches a slice of peach, thoughtfully. Getting information from Lionel is as easy as trying to empty the ocean with a bucket. Cristiano looks around his room. It looks exactly like he had left it. 

 

“Then what did you feel like today? What have you done that was so important that you forgot to drink?” he asks. He should have asked this the first thing when he came back home, really. And that brings back into Cristiano’s head the memory of what they’d done instead. 

 

Lionel’s reply comes out as an echo of Cristiano’s thoughts. “I told you… _showed you_ what I did.” And then the little devil deliberately engulfs the spoon with his lips, fixing his glare into Cristiano’s eyes. And then out again, licking some white steam from the metallic surface. There is a light spread of red on his cheeks now as if he is embarrassed by his own audacity.

 

The flinch of Cristiano’s cock is undeniable. Lionel is fucking doing it again. Opening his mouth again widely and all Cristiano wants to do is lift onto his knees and fill Lionel’s mouth again. Replacing all that bullshit about _no food nor water, just sex, thanks,_ with the delicious moans that now Cristiano knows that Lionel makes when he’s properly fucked.

 

Enough.

 

Cristiano grabs the bottle of water and drinks with big gulps, throwing his head back. He closes his eyes, blinding himself to the show in front of him. Really, it’s ridiculous how easily Lionel can manipulate him. When the fuck has Cristiano started to want to fuck Messi every second of his life? Why can’t he have his brain connected for more than five minutes before his cock interferes like he’s a teenager again?

 

Cristiano has built up enough willpower to not have boners even when he’s surrounded by naked teammates in the dressing room, so he can’t accept that he’s acting like this now.

 

And it’s that willpower that allows Cristiano to ignore his own arousal and look directly in Lionel’s eyes, lowering his head after the last gulp of water.

 

“Well,” he says, “this is going to change. I want you to properly feed and hydrate when I am not at home. Is that clear?”

 

Lionel is struck by the tone, and when he nods, still with the spoon in his mouth, he suddenly appears again as a boy. The previous charm is broken.

 

“And you have to keep yourself occupied, as well.”

 

Lionel tenses a bit, sucking in his spoon. But nods again. This time, Cristiano’s the one that is able to charm him. And Cristiano loves when Lionel is so eager to follow his directions.

 

“Tomorrow you’re going to train,” Cristiano says.

 

And suddenly everything changes.

 

“No,” Lionel says, letting the spoon to drop on the spot. He looks… his expression has a mixture of desperation and of stubbornness that admits nothing and Cristiano is taken aback.

 

Shit.

 

Of course, Lionel doesn’t want to even get close to something that reminds him of football. This is clearly not at the top of the list of Lionel Messi’s desired activities after what he’s been through. Had this been, Lionel would have… well, played football, instead of being here.

 

Sooner or later, this needs to change. Cristiano is aware of that. But since Lionel has entered his house, he has never refused to do something that Cristiano has suggested. Let alone use such a strong tone that leaves no room for argument. Right now, Lionel needs his safe space.

 

Lionel has just set his limits now, and Cristiano can’t do anything but respect them.

 

Think. Now Cristiano needs to think and find something that Lionel Messi could enjoy doing, apart from physical activity. Well, it’s not that he has read all the gossip about Lionel’s life-has there even been any? Lionel has always seemed to have such a boring life, really. Cristiano can’t think of anything else that he has done, apart from playing football and having boring family holidays. 

 

And then, a hidden drawer of Cristiano’s memory opens. Yes.

 

“I still don’t want you to sit here doing nothing. Do you want to play video games?” He offers, “I don’t have anything apart from poker, but I can easily buy you something else.”

 

Lionel’s fingers clench around the spoon. This time he’s not as assertive as before in his denial, but he still shakes his head. Pensive. A sort of melancholy in his eyes, that leaves Cristiano even more puzzled.

 

He just wants to help, really, but apparently, his attempts are having the unfortunate effect of somehow torturing Lionel.

 

One last attempt, Cristiano promises himself. He has to try and remember the opposite. Think about something that Lionel Messi doesn’t like. Better: hasn’t usually done in his life. Cristiano has actually no idea, he can only guess. And he hopes he’s not going to unconsciously hurt Lionel again.

 

“What about reading?” he tries. 

 

Lionel looks immediately softer in his attitude: his shoulders curve down, and he shrugs. Not accepting the suggestion, but neither refusing it. 

 

“It’s decided. Tomorrow you’re going to read,” Cristiano cuts down. He’s already thinking about possibilities. Something lighter, surely not depressing. Possibly something catchy to sweep away whatever Lionel is turning over in his mind. A thriller maybe?

 

Lionel cautiously nods at Cristiano’s voice.

 

“As you’re going to eat because I’ve asked you to do so, isn’t it?” Cristiano ventures, removing any doubt.

 

As foreseen, Lionel nods, again, and here Cristiano is officially invested in the task of making a grown-up man function and seek out his basic needs since he doesn’t want to have a corpse in his house.

 

Seriously, what a mess.

 

Cristiano sighs under Lionel’s confused, almost worried eyes. What he’s thinking about now, Cristiano has no idea. Perhaps he’s worried that Cristiano would have kicked him out. Yesterday, Lionel made very clear how much he feared that. Being abandoned. But now, he seems to have reassumed a little bit of security in that and Cristiano surely doesn’t want to waste it.

 

On the other hand, Cristiano wonders how it would be to command Lionel Messi. Ordering him for every little action, even the very basic surviving ones. Even if Cristiano recognises that there is something wrong, or dangerous about that, he can’t deny the thrilling little pleasure that is now running through his veins.

 

Cristiano sighs. “Ok, I’m sure that you’re going to eat and drink properly for the whole time that you’re going to be here,” he states, leaving no room for an argument.

 

Indeed, Lionel nods again, more solemnly.

 

“Now I am going to take these down,” Cristiano says grabbing the tray. “And you are going to sleep. It has been an exhausting end of the day for you.”

 

The sentence is followed by Lionel silently nodding one last time.

 

It’s good enough for Cristiano. 

 

Once away from his room, Cristiano feels way calmer as he cleans the dishes. He arranges the kitchen and the mess left in the bathroom before going back to his bedroom with a tablet in his hands. He has work to do that can’t be postponed any further, mostly replying to email before he reaches the point of being utterly rude.

 

But when Cristiano comes back, he smiles, satisfied, because he feels like he’s accomplished the most important task of the day: Messi is sleeping peacefully under the sheet. Lionel not only felt safe enough to keep from panicking but also followed Cristiano’s orders and actually fell sleep even without Cristiano being there.

 

With a smile still on his face, Cristiano sits cautiously next to Lionel, being careful not to awake him, and slowly turns his tablet on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to Messifangirl for the great help, as always.


	6. Chapter 6

Cristiano wakes up earlier than usual, for once not prompted by the alarm clock.  The room is in semi-darkness, illuminated only by the dim light of the approaching dawn. Some birds are singing outside.

 

“Wakes up” is maybe not the right phrase. Cristiano is still drowsy from sleep, unable to properly focus on what is real and what is not. But he feels warm, agitated, out of breath. He groans, rolling on his back. Well, it’s pretty obvious what he was dreaming about, he thinks, while checking the time on his fitband. The stretches on the fabric of the joggers that he’s using as pyjamas are there to prove it. Another groan escapes his mouth. He’s questioning himself and his age now. He’s no longer a teenager, to have such an awakening.

 

There’s movement next to him and the swish of blankets suddenly reminds Cristiano that he’s not alone. This, the warmness of the body next to him, and the memory of who it is and why he’s there, flows from the mazes of Cristiano semi-conscious brain down to lower parts of his body. Well, that in itself is a good argument about the reason for his current situation.

 

Cristiano groans again, scraping the blankets below him. This time, the groan is echoed by a moan that’s not coming from Cristiano’s mouth.

 

Seconds after, a very sleepy Messi rolls on his side and, lifting on his elbows, looks down at him, his face surrounded by a mop of messy hair. That’s a change Cristiano isn’t expecting. The morning before he had been noisier but Lionel had kept sleeping like a stone.

 

Except that Messi is just staring at him as if he doesn’t know what to do and it’s getting on Cristiano’s nerves. That’s the excuse he will tell himself. Or the fact that he is still very sleepy and still half in his dream and he can’t really connect all the synapsis of his brain because instead of greeting a good morning, Cristiano finds himself asking -quite roughly, he is afraid- “What do you want?”

 

Lionel doesn’t stop staring at him, even if he’s taken aback, probably more by the tone than the words. He just seems more confused. “I… I don’t know.” He passes his hand through his hair, absent-mindedly.  “What do you want me to do?”

 

Of course. This is what Messi has done since he stepped into Cristiano’s house. Always asking for directions. He’s looked pleased, even eager to follow Cristiano’s orders but Cristiano hadn’t even given him time to think if this is what _he_ wanted. Ordering someone around in everything, including basic human needs. Planning not only his life, but also another’s one, step by step.

 

Maybe it’s that, or the tension in his southern parts that is making Cristiano somehow nervous, but he’s kind of annoyed. That’s the only excuse that Cristiano can make for himself when he hears his own voice saying “What every man would want when just awakened, I guess. A damn good fuck.”  Or maybe it was simply his erection taking control of his vocal cords.

 

The point is that Lionel, of course, instead of sending him to hell, nods. He assumes also a steadier look, happy to know what to do with his life.

 

Indeed, there is no hesitation when he pulls down the sheets from Cristiano’s body, revealing a bad case of morning glory. He’s also about to lower Cristiano’s underwear, but Cristiano is quicker grabbing his attention with a whistle. “Don’t let it catch cold prematurely.”

 

Lionel tilts his head with a questioning look.

 

“You first,” Cristiano says raising a little bit over the head of the bed, in a more comfortable sitting position, from where he’s is planning to savour the show that Messi is about to give.

 

Lionel takes some pensive seconds before moving, lifting his t-shirt. Clearly, he’s still half asleep to not to understand immediately what to do. That, or his natural self-consciousness has re-emerged. Cristiano remembered for how long he’s been unnerved by that. Lionel Messi was one of the most powerful players -an actual pain in the ass for Cristiano’s spotlight- and still he used to act as if he was there by chance. It took some years for Cristiano to get used to this aspect of him, and accepting that in the end, it wasn’t an act at all: Lionel was really like this. But Cristiano would have never said that he liked it.

 

Until now. Because now Cristiano loves how Lionel is obviously making an effort not to lower his eyes while stripping completely naked in front of Cristiano. Even after all that they have already done. Cristiano licks his lips in appreciation at the sight. This is going to be such a nice day, judging from how the morning’s starting.

 

Indeed, Cristiano’s voice doesn’t sound annoyed anymore, even if it doesn’t lose any steadiness when it speaks again. “Take the lube and condom now, they’re in the drawer.”

 

Cristiano controls every movement that Lionel does. From the quick nod to when he bends to the bedside table, exposing that glorious ass that he has, an obvious masterpiece made to be fucked.

 

He’s too quick, though, and now Cristiano is facing again Lionel’s disoriented face, waiting for his instructions.

 

“Finger yourself, flea. You now know how much you need to be ready to take me, don’t you?”

 

“Yes,” Lionel replies with a little smile. And a little redness on his cheeks, that only increases when he proceeds in the operation.

 

Cristiano bites his lower lips. He would never push Lionel. It’s really important that he takes all the time that he needs. But Cristiano wants him now, and wants him so badly that he has to grasp the sheets not to take Lionel and drive him over his cock, where he should be.

 

Lionel must have felt Cristiano’s impatience. Or maybe he himself is getting impatient. In any case, he declares that he’s ready to go only after a few moments.

 

This time Cristiano doesn’t argue with him. Lionel’s no longer a virgin and should know his limits. Cristiano knows his own and knows that the sooner they start, the better he will be.

 

“Now, finally, you have the permission to take my clothes off.”

 

Lionel does it in almost a ceremonial way. His fingers are delicate as he lowers Cristiano’s underwear and trousers in one movement. His eyes are always on Cristiano’s, looking for any signs of disapproval.

 

But Cristiano smiles, pleased, as, finally, Lionel straddles him. He’s even more pleased as Lionel grabs his cock, sliding the condom over his length. With his hands re-soaked with lube, he finally positioning it at his entrance.

 

There is a grimace when he goes down first. Cristiano is able to notice it even in the fog of pleasure. As he had thought, Lionel has taken too little time preparing himself. And still, he doesn’t stop moving. He’s always been stubborn, that, Cristiano has to admit.

 

But the point is that… it could be better. _Should_ be better, really, also for Lionel. It’s kind of obvious that Lionel has never been in this position in his life.

 

There is no point in saying it loudly, though and making him feel miserable. So Cristiano grabs his hips, slowing him down. Lionel immediately understands: he balances himself grabbing Cristiano’s shoulders and lets himself to be guided.

 

“Yes,” Cristiano approves, earning a little smile from Leo. “Like this. Like you were riding a horse. Have you ever ridden a horse?”

 

“No...”

 

“But you’re good with this, aren’t you?” Cristiano compliments, even if he’s the one dictating the rhythm. “You’re such a natural.”

 

“It’s just you Cristiano. You are....”

 

“Oh, no, my flea. You are so good taking my cock, squeezing it like this,” Cristiano forces more friction in the sliding movement, resulting in more delicious pressure at the base of his cock.

 

Eventually, he releases his grasp, leaving Lionel in control. And Lionel follows, keeps moving, maintaining the slow, steady rhythm that Cristiano was having.

 

“Ah… I told you. You’re a natural.”

 

Lionel smiles at the compliment and for a moment Cristiano is breathless. And it’s not for the sex really. But that sweet smile, those dimples, the way in which the long fringe moves over his eyes. For the hundredth time since Lionel’s entered his house, Cristiano wonders how is possible that he has never noticed that Lionel was so beautiful, after so many years.

 

Cristiano moves his hands behind his head, trying to stay still as much as possible, because, really, having Lionel Messi moving like that over him in the dim light of the dawn is the closest thing to what Cristiano can imagine being perfection.

 

“So good,” Cristiano repeats, in ecstasy, “Do you like it?”

 

Lionel smiles again in between the movements “I love it,” he says.

 

Of course, he said that, Cristiano frowns, wondering if ever Lionel would have said different, even if he didn’t like it at all. Well, at least Cristiano can trick him a bit, to make sure that Lionel can have the best time as possible, as well.

 

“I knew it,” he smiles. “But you should take advantage of the position that I am allowing you to today.” Cristiano pushes up a bit, making Lionel gasp. “Just keep moving. Explore. Find where you like it most.”

 

Lionel shifts a bit before making some rolling movements until he gasps in surprise and excitement.

 

“There you go,” Cristiano purrs, moving up to encounter that point again. Deep, deep inside Lionel.

 

Lionel just wide opens his mouth in a silent shout, gripping Cristiano's shoulders. He is still trying his best to keep looking at Cristiano, still remembering how Cristiano stressed that this was important for him.

 

Cristiano can only approve of that, but what he doesn’t approve is the change of path in Lionel’s movements, obviously overwhelmed by the new sensation. Cristiano slaps his thigh, chastising him. “I never said you could accelerate.”

 

Lionel immediately stops, first in surprise and anger, and then with a guilty look.

 

“Or that you can stop, for what it counts. Keep moving at the rhythm that I taught you.”

 

Lionel nods, his fringe bouncing, before bobbing again slower, deeper.

 

“Like this. Move… move… move…” Cristiano dictates.

 

And Lionel, of course, follows. But if his intentions were to please Cristiano, it’s obvious now that he’s liking it himself, more and more.

 

Cristiano decides to ignore Lionel’s erection, and slides his hands on his torso, over his red nipples, now so hard that they look like little fruits there to be sucked. He pinches them, instead, provoking a little gasp from Lionel.

 

But not a complaint. Never a complaint, or even a hesitation in the movements.

 

Cristiano presses harder, looking at him challengingly, as to test Lionel’s limits. He never stops moving, the only sign of discomfort is some biting of the lower lip. But, if possible, he’s now harder than ever.

 

And all this is opening so many possibilities that Cristiano has never even imagined before. He doesn’t even know where these thoughts are coming from. He grasps Lionel hands, locking them behind his back and leaving them there, while he’s crossing his own under his own head, again.

 

Lionel lets him, of course, maintaining the rhythm only with the effort of his strong thighs.

 

Cristiano is sure about it. This wouldn’t be half as exciting if it wasn’t Messi there.

“Look at you,” Cristiano voices his thoughts. “All these years of rivalry, all those battles between us, the struggles to shine despite the lumbering presence of the other… All these years chasing each other and look at where you end up.” Cristiano moves up to stress the words, and he has to bite his lips not to shout at the feeling of Lionel’s smooth cheeks embracing his cock down to the base.

“This is…” Lionel gasps at Cristiano’s pushes, but he manages to recollect himself, gulping. He’s really determined to finish that sentence, “This is where I’m meant to be.”

 

_Yes,_ Cristiano thinks. Impaled down on his cock. Eager to please him. This is how things should have always been. Except.

 

As much as Cristiano loves the way in which Lionel is looking down at him with eyes filled with pleasure, there’s a wrong note there.

 

“Oh no,” Cristiano argues, before grabbing Lionel on his hips, stopping him. The panicked look in his Lionel's eyes doesn’t go away as Cristiano starts moving him, abruptly lifting him from his position and flipping him.

 

“ _This_ is where you are meant to be,” Cristiano declares hovering over him. He traps Lionel’s wrists in his hand before moving into him, barely registering how Lionel’s lifted his legs over his back, to help his movements.

 

Cristiano can’t stop penetrating him. It’s not just making his cock happy. It’s the very idea of violating Lionel Messi. Entering in his territory, entering in him, conquering him, filling all of him. Every single push is deliberate, not for the mere friction against his most sensitive parts, but for a claim in what is now Cristiano’s reign. The only thing that Cristiano can process is proving his ownership of the body below him. Every touch he makes is nothing more than a desperate need for possession.

 

“You are mine. Mine. Mine,” Cristiano repeats like a mantra, but the deeper he’s digging into his feelings, the less he can rationalise them into words. Leo is saying something. Some rambling about forgetting, but Cris can’t understand them, either. Now Cristiano can only act, he’s all instinct, and it must be that which pushes him to lower down and bite that white, immaculate, tempting flesh. He bites hard, between the neck and the shoulder, and Lionel yelps, of pain or surprise, Cristiano doesn’t know. He can’t even get himself to bother because right now his entire body and will can focus only on the orgasm that he’s having.

 

It’s like a blackout. Cris can’t even promise that he hasn’t passed out, laying over Lionel. _Inside_ him. What’s sure is that he jerks at the vibration of his fitband. And when he looks down to Lionel, Cris can physically feel his own heart sinking. He has done it _again_.

 

He lost control. Again.

 

Lionel is simply staring at him, as always. No sign of judgment in his eyes. All the blame comes from Cristiano himself. He should have known better, at this point. He can’t keep doing this. Not in this way.

 

Cristiano gently brushes away Lionel’s fringe from his eyes, briefly closed at the gesture. Cristiano’s hands linger a little longer over him, and eventually, he moves down to his cheek, until he reaches the spot on his neck, that’s already getting darker.

 

“Shit,” he murmurs at the end, more to himself than to Leo. “Does it hurt? I am so sorry.”

 

Lionel smile reassuringly “It’s alright.”

 

“No, it’s not,” Cristiano says, lifting on his knees and elbows to stop crushing Lionel. It’s only then that Cristiano realises that -at least- he managed to make Lionel come. But the spot over Lionel’s stomach is not capturing Cristiano’s attention as much as the one on his neck. “I don’t want to hurt you.” His fingers are still brushing the wound. Maybe he should apply some antiseptic.

 

“You’re not hurting me,” Lionel reassures him. And his voice is always so soft and soothing that it would be so easy to believe him. If only Cristiano didn’t know what he felt some minutes ago. He should really find a way to control himself, or he will end up for sure hurting Lionel. Fuck.

 

The fitband vibrates again, reminding Cristiano that Lionel Messi cannot be the only commitment of his life. This is surely a novelty in his life. Work has always come first as his priority, by far, but right now Cristiano only wants to stay here with Lionel. To reassure him. Reassure himself. _Understand_.

 

“I need to go,” Cristiano says instead.

 

Lionel doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything, letting Cristiano rise from the bed and throw away the used condom. But Cristiano cannot miss the little glimpse of panic in Lionel’s eyes, now that he well knows what to look for.

 

“Come with me,” Cristiano invites, grabbing his wrist to help him up.

 

Now panic is unmissable on Lionel’s face, even if he doesn’t give any other sign of resistance to Cristiano.

 

“Not to training,” Cristiano can’t help but grin, thinking about the crisis that Lionel could provoke by showing himself at Ciudad Real Madrid.

 

“To shower. Separately!” Cristiano immediately adds. He needs to play by ear, try to control Lionel’s mood and -at the same time- control his own instincts as much as he can. It’s not so easy, both being still naked. Cristiano deliberately turns himself to head to the door of his bedroom, dragging Lionel behind himself.

 

“You take the first bath on your left,” Cristiano instructs him while looking at the wall in front of him. “I’ll see you down in the kitchen for breakfast.”

 

While walking into his assigned bathroom (on the right), Cristiano feels reassured by the fact that he can at least do this: be sure that Lionel eats and drinks properly. He also needs to think about which book he can give him. The day before, he had forgotten that his library was mainly made of Portuguese books. Or English, to practise the language. Surely, he has something in Spanish as well, but he needs to check.

 

It’s soothing. Thinking about all these practical things. Ignoring the big elephant in the room. Soothing as the water streams over Cristiano’s muscles.

 

He has something of Sepulveda, he’s sure about that. He was quite easy for when Cristiano was starting learning Spanish. He could be good for Lionel: not too complex to read. Not too depressing or deep in lessons for life or other harangues. Nothing stupid, and in any case, Cristiano is not really sure about the Argentinian’s sense of humour. But something catchy, able to drive Lionel’s mind away from his emo thoughts.

 

Cristiano can only give a quick look at himself staring at the mirror: it’s getting late. He can’t be late because of Lionel. His life can’t be messed up to _that_ point. But he’s wondering if someone will notice. The gel somehow rubbed. The eyebrows not plucked.

 

He sighs, diving into his training suit. He really hasn’t time. He needs to grab the book and then prepare breakfast. Given his rush, he can only opt for cereals again, even if he’d rather prepare something more nutritious for Lionel. At this point, Cristiano can only hope that Lionel will obey him with his instructions about food.

 

Said Lionel enters into the kitchen with his white bathrobe on. Cristiano curses himself, realising that he threw him into the bathroom without a change of clothes.

 

And then Cristiano cringes, spotting the bruise on Lionel’s shoulder that’s already getting purple. Cristiano brushes it again, studying it. For the moment, the rest of Lionel’s body is completely forgotten, as if that spot is a black hole, capturing all the vision that Cristiano has. Not his nostrils, though, and Cristiano’s brain is registering the sweet note of the soap that Lionel would have chosen from the available range.

 

“We should do something about it,” Cristiano tries to maintain a neutral tone, but even he can hear his voice faltering.

 

“It’s alright. I swear you, this is nothing compared to the spikes on my calves.”

 

Cristiano blinks. It’s hard now to think about him on the pitch. Remembering him running despite all the kicks and pushes. Remembering the fire in his eyes, as he argued against Pepe or Ramos. Or the referee.

 

Lionel is probably right, he will be fine. But still, Cristiano mutters an apology, before shoving a mug of cereal in his hands. “Eat,” he commands. And Cristiano asks himself how long he can go on ignoring those moments when he loses control and hurts him. Does it really matter that when he’s in himself, Cristiano gives him a pot of cereals and a glass of milk?

 

Lionel sits on the table, while Cristiano keeps a safe distance, still leaning against the counter.

 

Cristiano is getting tired of himself. And nervous, because it’s getting late. But there are still things that need to be arranged before Cristiano leaves. And again, thinking about that helps to ignore the mess in Cristiano’s head. And also the glimpse of Lionel’s legs that are peeking from the opening of the bathrobe.

 

“I am afraid I need to ask you to keep my house, as I can’t let the cleaners in,” Cristiano says. Not that the house really needs that, but he guessed that that could be an excuse as another to keep Messi focused on something that is not his own darkness.

 

Lionel nods, staring at his bowl. “I guess you can’t keep them away forever, can you?”

 

That is another mess that needs to be solved. Yes, indeed, Cristiano can’t keep hiding Lionel from his personnel. And still, he doesn’t know if he can trust them _so much_.

 

“Don’t worry about that,” Cristiano says to Lionel in any case. It’s not on his shoulders, it’s on Cristiano’s. He will find a solution, even hiding Lionel in the wardrobe if need be. He won’t let him down.

 

“And for when you have free time, I have this for you,” Cristiano prompts passing the book to him. Lionel reads the title, frowning.

 

“Have you already read it?”

 

“No,” he says shaking his head. “It’s not that I’ve read so much.”

 

“Good. I think you’re going to like it,” Cristiano says, after drinking his milk.

 

There is only one last thing that he has to say. He doesn’t really feel like he has the right to ask Lionel to do this, as well. But since Lionel has taken the task of pleasing Cristiano so seriously, it’s worth a try.

 

“And you’re going to shave,” he finally says.

 

Lionel looks at him with raised eyebrows, before slowly nodding. Cristiano’s never particularly liked facial hair, and that stubble that Lionel has is irritating his skin.

 

Cristiano won’t have to worry about that, the next time they’ll be together.

 

Because at this point denying that it’s going to happen again is completely pointless. And perhaps starting to recognise what’s happening may help Cristiano to stop being so… violent? Possessive? It can prevent him needing to hurt Lionel. Maybe.

 

For sure, even if Cristiano is not very happy that everything seems to happen so quickly, and without any real control from him, he can’t deny that he’s kind of enjoying bossing Lionel around.

 

“Good boy, Lio,” he praises with a smile.

 

 And then suddenly everything changes. “Don’t call me like that,” Lionel hisses.

 

Cristiano almost drops his bowl. He blinks, trying to focus on this Lionel in front of him. Cristiano considers if this is part of Lionel’s weird games, somehow. A way of challenging him to react.

 

But judging from the body language of the man in front of him, it doesn't seem the case. His narrowed eyes, for one, are unable to look at him directly; the way in which he's opening and closing his fists... it seems like Lionel is in real discomfort. And all because of a nickname which Cristiano has heard used thousands of times for him?

 

“Why?” Cristiano asks lamely. It’s not that he wants to call Lionel out: he’s more taken off guard than anything else.

 

“Just, don’t. Please,” Lionel answers with his typical quiet tone back in place.

 

Cristiano immediately regrets that he asked Lionel anything, forcing him to beg. Having had sex -vanilla or rough… it doesn’t matter- doesn’t exactly give Cristiano the right to call him nicknames if he doesn’t want to.

 

“No _Leos_ or _Lios_?” Cristiano tentatively asks.

Lionel shakes his head.

“That’s fine,” Cristiano says, still a bit shaken. “No nicknames for you.”

 

“Just these,” Lionel unexpectedly answered.

 

 “So, is _flea_ any better?” Cristiano asks, with a sarcastic tone on the nickname.

 

Lionel nods this time, any trace of nervousness gone. Apparently, a mocking nickname is better than a friendly nickname. Whatever. This just adds to the thousands of questions that he had already wanted to ask Lionel. And probably for the first time in his life, Cristiano’s regretting that he has to go training. Now, rather than later.

 

“I have to run, now,” he states, dropping his bowl in the sink.

 

Work has always come before anything else in Cristiano’s life and Lionel Messi cannot be shaking his life so much to change even _that_. And still, that glimpse in Lionel’s eyes when he leaves the kitchen… Cristiano knows that he’s going to see it every time he closes his eyes during training.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wohooo! It's almost a year that I'm posting this story! Happy Birthday to it!
> 
> But also... it was supposed to be a short pwp and here we are, 30K words later, with a chapter that doesn't even has Leo in, forget the sex (spoiler?).
> 
> Oh, well, I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

When arriving at the training centre, Cristiano soon realises that today nobody cares about him or his possibly weird behaviour. Even Marcelo avoids his inquisitive glances. 

 

Cristiano should have been relieved by that, but he’s not. Because the reason why everybody’s attention is diverted from him is that the little stupid thing who is currently in his bed has apparently decided to disappear from the world without giving any kind of notice, to anyone. 

 

So, after three days, Lionel Messi is officially missing, and the world has gone crazy.

 

“Tell me you haven’t killed him,” Sergio addresses Cristiano as soon as he arrives in the dressing room, a pointing finger brandished like a sword just in front of Cristiano’s nose.

 

“That is not funny,” Cristiano grunts back, bending down to grab a bottle of water. And yes, to hide from the scrutinising eyes of Sergio, because, seriously: what the fuck he should say? No, I haven’t killed him, I’ve just fucked him. Cristiano just wishes he could be a better liar.

 

Fortunately, Sergio has the attention span of a goldfish, so he quickly turns himself to the next player entering the room. “Tell me you haven’t killed him,” he says, in Pepe’s direction.

 

“Fuck off, Ramos,” Pepe says, unceremoniously throwing his training bag on the bench.

 

“Gosh, but actually, it is true that someone could have hurt him. This is horrible,” Fabio says, looking at Cristiano, for some reason that Cristiano can’t identify. Why is everybody always thinking there is some kind connection between him and Messi, anyway? 

 

Cristiano bends over as if to adjust his shin pads. But he’s running out of ideas of how to hide from his teammates if they keep fucking talking about Messi.

 

“But what if…” This time James is the one to speak. He’s still at the entrance of the dressing room, with his tracksuit, but doesn’t seem very eager to go on changing. He’s looking at everyone, with big, dramatic eyes, as if trying to find an answer to his anguish from whoever can give it to him.

 

“Messi looked very sad after the final,” he states at the end. “Do you think… maybe nobody has hurt him, but do you think it might be possible that he-“

 

“No!” Ramos cuts him off, this time with a very serious expression in his face. It’s clear that even for him the time for jokes is over. “I played against him for a long time. Believe me: he’s not that guy. He’s not someone who gives up that way.”

 

Cristiano flinches. It’s nice to hear the respect in Sergio’s voice. But he’s kind of overestimating his knowledge about Messi. Cristiano doesn’t know if what Messi’s doing can count as surrendering, but one thing is sure: even as Sergio may claim to know him, he would never guess what Messi is actually doing with his life now.

 

Cristiano sighs. Maybe coming to training has just been a very bad idea. He should have stayed home, trying to actually talk with Leo, and put an end to this craziness. Except, Cristiano surely wants to know what’s going on, but he’s not equally sure that he wants this to end with Messi leaving his house with a goodbye kiss.

 

Cristiano immediately regrets his sigh when he notices the presence of Celo next to him. The guy has always seemed like he could see directly into his soul.

 

Fortunately, he just stands there, arms crossed on his waist, and directing all his attention to James.

 

“You can’t reach this level of pro if you can’t cope with losses.” His voice’s tone is almost didactic, half calming and half educating the kid as to what being a football player really means. 

 

And what he’s saying is absolutely reasonable, and Cristiano knows it too well. You have to learn how to lose. It’s true some losses are more bitter than others, and you may be led to think about a thousand things you want to go do to find yourself again. Retirement, a trip to the Himalayas, opening a restaurant… It’s all useless, of course, because there’s nothing that you can do. Only stand up again and fight.

 

Anyway, even in the range of those one thousand thoughts, throwing himself into the bed of another player has never been contemplated by Cristiano.

 

Well, this is not true. In fact, it did happen once or twice. But not in the way Messi is doing it. And certainly not disappearing in that way, leaving the entire world to wonder what is actually happening.

 

“I think you’re right,” and this time the voice is from Karim. “But that brings back to the only possibility being the fact that someone has actually hurt Messi.”

 

And that brings a glacial silence in the room. Nobody really wants to think about that. You can love or hate Messi, but nobody with a minimum of heart that serves to something more than merely pumping blood in the legs would be less than horrified to the perspective of Messi hurt by some kind of crazy maniac.

 

There surely is also something egoistic about the discomfort. All of them are pretty famous. Wondering what happened to Messi is a bit about wondering what could happen to them.

 

Cristiano feels lightheaded. Everything is so surreal. He feels the need to scream. And also, he feels like he has the eyes of all his mates on him like they already know everything, and they are judging him because he doesn’t have the courage to admit loudly what’s happening.

 

It’s like…

 

Cristiano flinches when he recognises the mood. This is exactly what he feels like when he’s worried that someone can guess his sexuality.

 

Damn Messi and his stupid ideas.

 

But apparently, despite Cristiano’s paranoia, nobody is really paying attention to him, all too focused on Messi’s case.

 

“But they would have asked for a ransom, wouldn’t they?” James asks, with a tiny little voice.

 

Again, the room stays silent even if everybody could hear exactly what everybody else was thinking. Not necessarily. _Not if he met a kind of psycho crazy sadist that only wanted to harm him._

 

“Enough,” Cristiano bursts out at the end. “There is nothing that we can do about that. And no good for Messi can come from us chit chatting about him. It’s time to train, now. Let’s go!”

 

Cristiano can feel the glance of Celo over him. Damn himself and his brilliant idea of always getting the spotlight. Cristiano can’t do anything about that now, though, so he purposely ignores him, and heads to the field.

 

The phantom of a smile appears on Cristiano’s lips when he realises that his teammates are following him. As always.

 

When the training is over, nobody seems like they want to talk about Messi. Maybe they have also stopped thinking about it, Cristiano hopes.

 

Well, good for them, in that case. But he hasn’t. All that time he hadn’t stopped for one second to think about why Messi hadn’t even left a message, and it throws Cristiano into this horrible situation. And he’s still thinking of it while taking his shower. 

 

Messi’s just dropped the world and decided to hide out in Cristiano’s house. Nonsense.

 

And maybe it’s not Cristiano’s business but he feels like he should try and convince Lionel to contact someone and reassure them that he’s ok -more or less. At least, he’s not been killed.

 

The point is: how? 

 

Cristiano wonders about the possibilities while drying himself. It’s not that they talk too much. Cristiano can command Lionel to do whatever he wants if they remain on a… _certain sphere_ , but he’s not particularly sure about his persuasive power over something else. 

 

Yeah, and also all that the commanding thing is still so new and confusing to Cristiano that -to cut it simple- he has no idea of what he’s doing, let alone what he _should do_.

 

Cristiano is lacing his shoes, not yet dressed when he almost jumps at the sudden noise coming next to him. It takes a few moments to recognise his mobile ring, and he then scrambles in his bag, trying to fish his phone before the last ring.

Cristiano’s first thought was that it was Messi, even if -as long as Cristiano knows- Messi doesn’t even have his mobile number. This alone says how much that damn midget has invaded Cristiano’s brain.

 

Cristiano's finger presses the button just in time before the voicemail activates.

 

“Please tell me he’s not buried in your garden,” the familiar voice of Ricky says at Cristiano’s ear. 

 

Cristiano stops even to breathe, for a second.

 

“Haven’t you heard?” Ricky keeps talking on the other side, completely misunderstanding Cristiano’s silence.“Messi has disappeared. The poor guy probably has burned out after Copa America.”

 

Cristiano looks around as if he has just confessed to having killed someone. Fortunately, one of the advantages of his habit of being the last to leave training is that barely anybody is still there. Sergio and Karim are there, talking about a new Mexican restaurant that has just opened in Madrid. Celo is trying to make some sense to his hair. James has just thrown a last worried glance at Cristiano’s direction before leaving the dressing room.

 

Cristiano is quick to recover his bag and quickly moves into the corridor, the telephone glued to his ear.

 

Cristiano ponders his options quickly, while Ricky rambles about how Argentina is crazy about football and people don’t get that even superstar footballers can only stand so much tension. 

 

Finally, he heads to the dressing room of the guest team. Nobody should be there: it’s the most nearby discrete place that Cristiano can think of. 

 

“He is.” He says, and he is the first to be surprised about the sound of his voice. He really hadn't planned on telling Ricky. But the sudden relief that Cristiano feels at the idea of letting it out, at least only once, is illuminating him about the path he should walk.

 

“What?” Ricky asks, taken aback.

 

“Not in my garden. In my house,” he confesses, sliding through the door and falling into a sitting position. “But he’s not dead.”

 

“Ok, Cris, if this is some kind of joke, I am sorry but I am not getting it.”

 

“It’s not. Messi is in my house.”

 

There is a long moment of silence on the other side of the line. Theatricality has surely always been a little perv of Cristiano, and it’s obvious that he managed to floor Ricky. Sad useless victory, Cristiano thinks with a grin.

 

“Look,” Ricky eventually says, “I think it’s time to have tea together. Mind coming to my house?”

 

“Not at all,” Cristiano says already balancing on his knees to raise up. “I’ll be there in ten.”

 

Ricardo’s house is only a few minutes driving from the Madrid training centre. Which is a good thing because if there is a moment when Cristiano’s brain likes to produce movies in trilogies, soundtracks included, it’s while Cristiano drives. And he has too much material to feed his brain these days. Material for horror movies. Or drama. Or porn. A bad mixture of the three, directed by someone under the effect of LSD.

 

When Cristiano arrives, he is welcomed into Rick’s nice English garden. It’s a very relaxing place and Cristiano has always loved it. Green soft grass, so different from the pitch, small common flowers, art nouveau garden furniture -with chairs made of iron and still very comfortable- and birds singing all around. The idyllic picture is only completed by the sky that is starting to be pink painted by the sunset.

 

“So, let’s start from the beginning again,” Ricky says bringing to the table the occurrent for a perfect tea break: a nineteenth-century English fashion teapot, teacups, milk, sugar, lemon and biscuits. Really Ricky is so obsessed with Victorian England, it would never stop surprising Cristiano. But the entire environment has always given Cristiano the illusion that he could be able to discuss even his most troubling issues with the aplomb of an English lord. And that’s one of the thousands of reason why he loves to come to a Ricky tea when he really feels the need to talk with a friend. 

 

“Lionel Messi came to your house,” Ricky summarises, “and then he asked you to…”

 

“Have sex, yes,” Cristiano cuts him off, grabbing a biscuit.

 

Ricky looks very unimpressed while he dedicates all his attention to pouring the tea for the two of them. “And you obviously satisfied his request because…”

 

“I don’t know. Because, why not, I guess.”

 

Ricky sighs deeply and sits in front of Cristiano.

 

“Because you’re bloody obsessed with him, that’s why.”

 

“I’m not!” Cristiano denies, forgetting in his indignation both tea and biscuits.

 

“Yes, you are,” Ricky replies, unimpressed. “Look,” he says, before any Cristiano’s denials. “Nobody can even pronounce Messi’s name if you’re around. But I know you know the statistics by heart…”

 

“That’s because I want to keep informed of best performances to set my goals…”

 

“You even know his medical issues…”

 

“It’s worldwide news!”

 

“Have a consultant about Asperger syndrome.”

 

“I was just curious! You admit that he has a weird behaviour, and…”

 

“Are always looking for him during ceremonies…”

 

“Now, that is me simply being polite,” Cristiano replies, offended.

 

“Not simply greeting him, but looking for him,” Ricky repeats, unimpressed.

 

“I am the extroverted one, it only makes sense that I am the one seeking. Imagine if we don’t greet just by chance, the journalists would write novels about it!” 

 

“You have a collection of videos with his best games…”

 

“That’s just to know my adversary.”

 

“You’re not a defender, Cris. A collection of Piqué would have made more sense.”

 

“And how you even know that, by the way?” Cristiano bursts out.

 

Ricky takes the time of a little sip of tea before replying. “Because when you use the cloud on borrowed tablets you should log out.”

 

And that leaves Cristiano deserted of words and red in the face. “Ok, let’s admit for a second that I might have been interested in Messi before, that was only a professional interest,” he states after some embarrassing long seconds. “I was only trying to understand the athlete that everyone keeps comparing to me. Professional, as I said.” And indeed, he looks very professional while he’s trying to convince Ricky. If only a bird hadn’t decided to land on a branch next to him and sing the song of its life. That, admittedly, has stained the solemnity of the moment. 

 

“Even he disagrees,” Ricky points.

 

Cristiano groans, hiding his face in his hands.

 

“And if it’s only professional interest can you explain to me again how he ended up in your bed? Is he like a beast of sex?” Ricky asks with a mocking smile.

 

The light was passing through Cristiano's fingers, showing a little blurred Ricky between unfocused dark pink columns. “Yeah,” he groans after a second to mini-Ricky.

 

When Cristiano doesn’t receive any reply, he lowers he hands and looks properly at his friend, in all his glorious incredulity.

 

“Like… a wounded doe that is just asking to be killed and finally eaten, really.”

 

Ricky tilts his head before grabbing another biscuit. He doesn’t really need to speak: the confusion is all over his face.

 

“Listen. It’s just…” Cristiano slides the palm of his hands on the iron chair’s armrests. They’re smooth and cold, despite the high temperature of the late Spanish summer. Cristiano wishes he could read the texture like one could Braille writing, and that he could find there the revelation of how to explain what’s happening between him and Messi.

 

Cristiano isn’t exactly ashamed, but he for sure doesn’t feel perfectly comfortable with that. And considering that he is discussing this with Ricky, the calmest and most supportive person that Cristiano has ever met, it says a lot.

 

“It’s not… it’s not simply sex. It’s not _simple_ sex.”

 

Of course, Ricky doesn’t comment. He hums, waiting for Cristiano to explain.

 

“Ok, when he came to me… it was obvious that it was not what he’s used to doing.”

 

“Occasional sex?”

 

Cristiano shakes his head, grabbing his mug. “Sex, in general, with men. At least as a bottom, but I think in general. Jesus,” Cristiano runs a hand on his hair. “He has a wife. She’s been his girlfriend since forever.”

 

“Well,” Ricky sips his tea. Ceylon tea, with a drop of milk. “Having a wife doesn’t necessarily mean not having gay sex, as you know very well.”

 

Yes, Cristiano knows. He knows so many gay people that hide their nature under the façade of advertising-like families. Some of them are footballers. Cristiano knows also _that_ very well.

 

“It doesn’t seem like Messi’s case,” he mutters, shaking his head. Maybe Cristiano doesn’t want it to be. But no, it doesn’t really make sense. “I told you,” he states, lowering his mug. He can’t even think of drinking tea right now. “He’s not used to this. I’m sure about that.”

 

“Maybe he just admitted it to himself now,” Ricky says after another sip. Contrary to Cristiano, nothing could ever make him not want his tea. “Even if the coincidence is just weird. But who knows? Maybe losing with Argentina made him think _you know what? Fuck the world, now I’m getting what I want_.”

 

Cristiano considers this for a moment. Maybe Ricky is right. Maybe that’s it: Lionel had a crush on him and he enjoys some master and slave games. But enjoy is not exactly the word that Cristiano would use for Lionel’s behaviour.

 

“No,” Cristiano shakes his head. “He’s not in a _fuck the world I’m doing what I want_ mood. He is… wounded, as I said. There are no other words to define him.”

 

“Ok, I can see it, and he would have good reasons for that. But how a wounded Messi ends up going to you. And having sex?” and there was a tone of frustration in Ricky’s voice that was so unusual of him. As unusual as forgetting his tea, that is in danger of becoming cold.

 

“He was wounded and…” Cristiano gulps and proceeds to talk cautiously, trying to choose carefully every single word. That, on the other hand, is unusual of Cristiano’s. “And he wanted… No. It seemed like he _needed_ to be… more wounded.”

 

Ricky blinks. “And… you helped him.”

 

Cristiano groans, helplessly. 

 

“Well, you’ve always been a bit of a control freak,” he comments.

 

“But it worked, ok?” Cristiano says in his defence, throwing his arms around and scaring to death the bird on the next tree, before it flew away, offended. “He was better afterwards, I am telling you.”

 

“You’re blushing now,” Ricky says with a smile, sitting back on his chair. “I haven’t seen you blush like this for ages.”

 

Cristiano groans again, holding his head in his hands.

 

“Listen,” Ricky’s voice arrives from the distance. “What I am saying is that this is alright, ok. If Messi’s circumstances have brought out an aspect of you that was there but never had the chance to see the light… if this -as you are saying- is also helping Messi to cope with his problems, then I can’t see the problem, really. As long as you two are alright with this.”

 

Cristiano emerges from his self-pity, greeted by the sweet smile of Ricky. “I don’t know what I am doing really. I don’t know if it’s really alright. Yeah, ok _it’s Messi_ , but I don’t want to hurt him. Not for real, if that makes sense.”

 

“It does. You’re not an asshole.”

 

“But sometimes I am scared. He wants me to hurt him. And I… it’s…”

 

“Your dream come true,” Ricky finishes for him, earning another groan. “Ok, I told you, it shouldn’t be wrong. We both know that these things are around, people do this on regular basis. If this is the kind of relationship between you and Messi, just accept it and do some research so that neither of you gets hurt for real.”

 

Cristiano blinks. He hasn’t even thought about researching… what? Sadism? Is it really what he wants to do with Messi? He can’t really see himself lashing him but maybe that’s only a stereotype and image that he has. And in any case, Ricky isn’t wrong: having some kind of information doesn’t hurt. Maybe he can recognise in another’s experience what he’s feeling. It’s worth a try at least.

 

That helps Cristiano. As always, speaking with Ricky makes Cristiano feel a little lighter, and when he leaves the house, Cristiano has at least a sort of plan, a hint of where to find the rosebud to understand his own feelings.

 

But when Cristiano approaches his own home, he’s hit again with the outside world. In this case, it takes the shape of Jose, the guard at his house’s gates, on duty this night. 

 

“Cris,” he says from outside the driver’s window, “Can I have a word?” he asks.

 

“Sure,” Cris replies getting out of the car. It’s already sunset and the light is giving a red tone to the doe-like eyes of Jose. He has a dramatic look that somehow reminds Cristiano of James. 

 

“What’s up?” Cristiano says leaning against the side of the car. The surface is cold, even in the warm approaching night of Madrid in late summer.

 

Jose bites away a nail from his little finger before talking. “Is he still there?” There is no need to specify who’s talking about. Jose was on duty when Messi arrived, Cristiano remembers it very well.

 

Cristiano slowly nods, frowning.

 

“Listen, you know that you can trust me.”

 

“I am not expecting anything less,” Cris replies, harsh. Because suddenly Cristiano doesn’t know if he can trust him. Ricky is one thing. He can trust him to death, but the idea that Lionel’s safety depends on the man in front of him. Yes, sure, they had a good relationship. But he’s not his brother, as Ricky is. 

 

Jose seems physically hit by Cristiano’s tone. He keeps talking only after a few seconds. “Good,” he says, “Because I am a man of his word, and I won’t betray your trust.”

 

“But?”

 

“But it’s hard, ok? I’d like to think that I am doing the right thing and lying… it’s not me.”

 

“Why do you have to lie? Has someone asked you something?” Cristiano’s voice goes out with a hint of panic. 

 

“No, no, nobody asked me,” Jose is quick to reply before scratching the base of his neck. “But today I saw his family on tv…” he lowers his eyes, “they are all so worried about him…” 

 

Cristiano leans more heavily on the car, keeping quiet. 

 

“His sister… she cried…,” Jose adds at a certain point, looking back at Cristiano as if he’s lost and desperately looking for some help.

 

“Shit,” Cristiano mutters. Because he really doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he should do, and knows what he wanted to. He wanted to go home and enjoy Lionel’s company and maybe discuss the topic that Ricky pointed out. Instead, he should go inside and convince Messi to contact his family, which will probably end up giving him more distress. And he hates the idea of doing so, but he’s very well aware that he can’t ask Jose to hide their secrets if he’s so uncomfortable with that, and with good reasons.

 

Cristiano runs a hand through his hair. “I will talk to him,” he states at the end. If Cristiano would have looked at Jose he could have seen a big soft smile brightening the night. Instead, Cristiano muttered a goodbye, going back in the car. His mood ruined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to the ones that has followed and supported me through this year, and especially to Messifangirl who also has the heavy task of editing my writing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to [ Messifangirl](http://archiveofourown.org/works/search?utf8=%E2%9C%93&work_search%5Bquery%5D=messifangirl) for the great help, as always. If this story is readable, is only thanks to you. Without you I am nothing ;)


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